


Oh, Son of A---

by StrivingArtist



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 21st Century Visitor, As much cursing as South Park, At some point this stopped being crack, Barduil happens late, Cornucopia of Ships, F/M, Fix-It, I swear it, Irreverent Crack, It has become a teensy bit epic, Just enjoy, Kiliel Happens Late, Language Barrier, M/M, Multi, Not a Mary Sue, Nothing goes right, OFC - Freeform, Quest fic, Rollercoaster of feelings, Shameless, Smut, So don't try to judge., So some ships happen late, Violence, WIP, and terrible, but I think it transcended crack, but no one likes a dead durin, it's still ridiculous, obscenity, so much vulgarity in multiple languages, the dwarves are rude, vulgarity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:54:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 264,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine how pissed off you would be if you somehow ended up in Middle Earth in time to help, but you didn’t speak Westron. Or Sindarin. Or Khuzdul. All you have are proper nouns, and some random phrases like Mellon, and Amralime, and, oh yeah, the inscription from the One ring. because that’s going to go over well when you start spouting off long forgotten verse in the black tongue of Mordor….<br/>So instead of eloquently explaining yourself and saving lives and falling in love with a character of your choice, you have to chase them around like a slightly more verbose Hodor, trying to learn a language and keep the dumb bastards alive.<br/>------------------<br/>Well, it had to happen to someone eventually, and Pissed Off is definitely the way to describe it when it happens to her. But she still tries to do her duty to the fandom and keep the Durins alive just in case it isn't a nightmare after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Go Time

**Author's Note:**

> Undelined Khuzdul has translations in hover text.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there were trolls.

“Oh son of a bitch. Trolls.”

And with that terribly clever assessment she jumped off her pony.

For they most definitely were. Three of them: enormous, crouched, already converted into epic garden statuary, and the reason her eyes were the size of dinner plates.

To start with, for all that she recognized them, they were huge and horrifying. To continue, they were already stone, the sun was up over the horizon, and the dwarves were thoroughly AWOL.

“Shit. Did I miss them? Oh that would be bad. Very very bad. Fuck, this was how I was going to confirm which canon this is. Fuck, did they get further ahead of me? How did they do that? What kind of magic ponies are they riding? Did that guy sell me a crappy pony? Wait no. Stop, just.... Think. Use your damn eyes.” She stepped farther into the campsite and yelped a bit when the thought occurred. “Fire! Check the fire, see if it’s still….Oh thank god, Yeee-ehh-eessss. Still warm. Yes. Good. Good. Last night then. Sorry boys, meant to avoid you all getting sacked, didn’t work out. Maybe if you’d listened to me or let me come with you before now we could have a prevented that. But you’re all a bunch of dumb bastards doomed to die stupid pointless deaths. Anyhow…. troll hoard. How do I find a troll hoard?”

She spun, rushing to grab her pack and the reins of the obstinate hell-spawn she had accidentally purchased in place of a pony. Or maybe all ponies were like this. She wasn’t sure. This was her first.

Thankfully, a group of fifteen left as obvious a trail traipsing through the woods on foot as they did when riding.

“Really boys, If I can track you, it’s not surprising that the orcs’ll keep finding you. If this does include Azog that is, which I hope it does not. I’d prefer him already having his head off. But I _think_ those were orcs I heard. Or wargs. Not sure, didn’t sound friendly in any case. Or like wolves. Anyway, right, I think I can hear dwarves whinging up ahead, so, _you_ \--you grumpy pony bastard, can just stay here for the moment while I go make an ass of myself again and try to not get killed by those daft twats up there. They are not going to be happy about this visit either, since I might be the harbinger of wargs.”

She was not looking forward to wargs.

“It’s ok. Just think of the fandom.” She reminded herself. She looped the reins loosely over a branch to talk to the pony.

“Please don’t run away yet. If there aren’t orcs about to come through hunting, I’ll need you to be able to keep up. If they do show up, then run away okay? I’m pretty sure you’re evil, but I don’t want you getting eaten by an orc. Got all that?” She patted the pony’s shoulder and pulled her hand back quickly as he nipped at her.

She loosened the straps of her pack with one hand, clutching at her stick with the other.

This was it then.

Go time.

Finally.

Two months-- nearly at least-- of struggling to recall her brothers and dad talking about boy scouts. Two months of awkward, gross, miserable adventuring in the wilds of Middle Earth. Two months of ticks in… unpleasant places. Two months repeating the mantra that the fandom would never forgive her if she just fucked off back to the Green Dragon until she somehow woke up back in the real world. Two months to find the courage to stick by her guns and see if she could actually manage a live fix-it and keep the dumb bastards breathing. Two months of them getting angrier and angrier with each of her unappreciated arrivals.

Puking sounded nice right about then.

Two fucking months.

And now, knowing that the odds were very good that there was an orc pack nearby, with the Company close enough for her to eavesdrop for the first time in weeks, all she wanted was to hide behind a tree and have a nap. Or vomit. Either way.

Reminding herself that oxygen intake was important even when displaced to magical alternate planes of existence, she rolled her neck, nodded her head and walked forward.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was sitting with the others, away from the troll hoard, perfectly content to get no closer to the foul stench rolling out of the mouth of the cave, thank you very much. He smelled enough like troll after a night in the sack half on top of the king -- not like that -- and would be only too happy to scrub himself down in the first river they found, even if it was freezing cold water and the fish considered his feet delectable. But instead, thanks to the dwarves that were giddily digging through a pile of filth to look for shiny pebbles, he was sitting on a log, nodding off.

The fear of potentially becoming someone’s snack had kept him going through the night. But now the sun was warm on his face and the tree beside him was looking rather comfortable. And maybe if he rolled up his blanket and placed it just so against the bark he  have a quick nap here before --

“THORIN!”

Apparently not. Most unfair.

Along with the others he jumped up, expecting an attack as Nori ran into the cluster. Thorin popped out of the cave, clearly thinking the same since his axe was already in hand.

“Khulu?”

Nori grimaced before he answered, “She’s back. Magajjajûna.” 

Thorin, and everyone else actually, groaned in annoyance.

“Id-allâkh lukhalukh bintarg.”

Bilbo did not speak the supposedly secret language of the dwarves, but they spoke it around him rather a lot. He’d heard that particular insult levelled at him several times, including repeatedly the night before. So he glared until Thorin turned and noticed.

From his log, he was eye to eye with the dwarf, and felt a bit bolder than usual.

“I will eventually work out what that means, Thorin Oakenshield.” Because taunting grumpy, sleep-deprived kings wielding heavy axes was always an excellent idea.

“No you won’t, halfling. Ir-rûrîk’unsas ur’Khazad.”

“I’m better at languages than you know, Master Oakenshield.”

“Biraibkhin-e.”

“I plan to.”

Thorin didn’t answer that. Just narrowed his eyes slightly. Bilbo raised a sardonic eyebrow.

Thorin rarely answered when Bilbo slipped and let his inner Took take control. Luckily the Baggins in him made sure that the little victory smirk never got spotted.

But there was no time to gloat: Their inexplicably persistent follower was back.

’Follower’ was Bilbo’s term.

The dwarves tended towards the slightly more impolite end of the descriptive vocabulary spectrum. But she had brought him a bag of things he really ought to have remembered before running out his door, including several pocket handkerchiefs and his actual travelling coat, rather than the velvet number he had, for whatever reason, flitted off wearing. So he was disinclined to hate her just yet.

Not that he approved of her breaking into his hobbit hole, which she had obviously done to retrieve his belongings. But on the whole, she could hardly be counted as evil.

Annoying and rather stupid certainly, but not evil.

Bilbo and Bofur had spent many evenings on watch trying to work out why Thorin got so exceptionally grumpy whenever she appeared. Bofur figured it had to do with the fact that she was tracking them. That she could do it was upsetting his pride. Bilbo thought he just hated to be disobeyed. Though it wasn’t as if she understood when Thorin ordered her around.

It was also quite clear she didn’t care.

Whatever language or languages she spoke, they were nothing he had heard.

But as she didn’t understand a word of Common, their interactions had been….troubled from the start. Her manners were rough enough to rankle the dwarves. Even Gandalf had just tilted his head and puffed at his pipe while she had stood in his parlor and screamed what they collectively determined after her departure had been insults.

And now she was back.

Again.

Goody. Another three days of extra-bitchy-Thorin to look forward to.

“Thorin _sonof_ Thrain. _Isuperhateyou_. _Youmiserablepretentioussod._ ” She bowed crisply at the beginning of her speech sounding remarkably sweet and mannered. Especially compared to previous interactions. But Bilbo would have bet his pipe it wasn’t.  She had a little cheeky quirk to her lip that reminded him entirely too much of his Brandybuck cousins. She continued before Thorin could start yelling, “ _Greattoseeyouagain. Sorryaboutthetrolls. Entirelyyourfuckingfault. Yours. Iwouldhavebeenohsohappytowarnyou. Butno. Youwouldntletmetravelwithyou. Haveanicetimeinthatsack? Havefungettingsavedby_ Bilbo _andby_ Gandalf?”

Thorin stood stiff when she spoke, more focused on his nephews who had trailed in behind her. “Fili. Kili. Where did you find the Magajjajûna this time?”

“Didn’t, Uncle. She just walked up, like she did first couple times.”

Well, that had Thorin’s attention.

“Why are you here?”

“Azog _reallywantstokillyou_ Thorin. _AndthefangirlswouldkillMEifImessthisupsooooooo. YeahImcomingwithyouthsitime. Becauseyousee: Noonelikesadead_ Durin.”

“Azog died of his wounds at Azanulbizar, child. Why speak of him now?”

“ _Iamgoingtotravelto_ Erebor. _Withorwithoutyou_.”

“Answer the question.”

“ _IfIgettheStonefirstcanIbeking_?”

“You test my patience with this, lukhalukh.”

“ _Youvegotallthefacialexpressionofabagofrocks. Noideawhatyousaidthattime. Betitwasinsultingthough_.”

“You have given us little reason to believe you do not conspire with our enemies.”

Bilbo snorted a bit and rolled his toes in the dirt. She had done so several times according to most of the members of the Company, but Thorin wasn’t one to forget her first impression.

The incoherent rambling had put them off. Insulting his dead forebears had cinched it though.

But somewhere between her arrival at his door in Bag End and her appearance in their camp two weeks outside the Shire, she had shucked off most of her strangeness. Her hair had been restrained. Yes, her attire was a blend of cultures and purposes and not quite right, although Bilbo couldn’t figure out why, but at least he could recognize the pieces.

Though, her boots and trousers remained quite odd, even under the leather wrapped around them.

Her manners, however, were not improved.

Atrophied in fact. Hardly surprising. They’d barely seen anyone else while travelling, and no one travelling East. The Company had each other to talk to. After the second unexpected arrival, Thorin had forbidden them all from speaking to her, hoping, Bilbo expected, that she would return home after they had escorted her from camp enough times. All it seemed to do was make her angrier.

So her mood now was on par with that first night. As if Bilbo hadn’t been confused enough by the bevy of dwarves emptying his pantry and larder, he had a bizarre female.... something... screaming at the other unwelcome guests in a foreign tongue. The yelling had barely fazed them. Then she managed to snatch a knife off of Fili--who was still catching sass for it-- to threaten vaguely towards beards and braids. It was enough to first silence and then enrage the room.

And they were escalating back to that point.

Grand.

Maybe he should go fetch Oin? Someone was going to be bleeding in the near future. Oin would want to be at hand to help after it started.  

He watched. Waited. And Bilbo couldn’t help frowning when she made a show of carefully shucking off her pack and bags, and dropping her heavy stick to the ground.

She was trying to be...what? Transparent? Non-threatening?

Maybe there wouldn’t be blood after all.

A quick gesture reminded the king she had no weapons on her, and she started talking. Not that they knew what she was saying.

But at least this time is sounded like she was trying to placate them. Trying to explain. Her tone was measured and even and maybe a bit pleading.

She really was making an effort.

For once.

Thorin was starting to soften his expression in the face of obvious apologies and subjugation. He relaxed his normal battle posture to a guarded slouch. She was making progress, and Bilbo thought that, given time, he could probably sort of the basics of her tongue.

So it was a shame when her efforts were interrupted.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!”

Radagast.

The arrival of the odd, stammering, poo-dribbled wizard had set the dwarves into an uproar. First because an unknown madman had burst into their midst screaming warnings while riding a sledge drawn by giant rabbits. Which was odd, even for them. Second because with his arrival the odd young lass had lost her damn mind.

Twenty minutes on and she was still yelling.

“ _Motherfuckingmiddleearth! goddamnhellshitbitchfuck. Sothisisntthebookthen. Itsthemovie! Atleastpartlythemovie! Damnyoupeterjackson! Youjusthadtoincludewargsandorcsright?! ItwasnteveninthefuckingbooksPJ! Someofitisntevenintheappendix! Thespiderswerentenoughforyou? Youmaliciouscocksucker_?!” Whatever it meant, it sounded obscene. It was accompanied by some rather vulgar gesticulations and a significant tantrum with a branch that decimated an unsuspecting shrubbery. She continued, “Azog _shouldhavediedat_ Azanulbizar! Bolg _andhisarmyIcouldhandle_! _Thisisnotnecessarymisterjackson! Notatall! Noonelikesadead_ Durin _misterjackson! And_ Fili _and_ Kili _arewaytoofuckingprettytodie! Haveyouseenthem?! GAH! whycouldntthisbethedamnbook_?”

Vegetation effectively slain under the watch of Bilbo, Nori, Fili and Kili she finally started to calm down to a mutter.

“Been awhile since I’ve seen a lass get that upset. Last one was your amad.” Dwalin declared, returning and running a hand over his bald head as he spoke. There was a story to that, Bilbo was certain. “Did you catch any of that?”

Fili nodded, “Azog, Azanulbizar, and Durin, and our names, Fili and Kili that is. But we’ve heard all that before. And Bolg sounds familiar. Don’t know why though.”

“Another Orc. How’s she know so many orcs? And how’d she know who Thorin is if she’s not from Ered Luin?” Nori supplied.

“Dunno.”

“Actually, knowing about Bilbo’s snotrags was a lot weirder.”

“Handkerchiefs.”

“I think the oilskins still win out.”

“Uncle doesn’t trust her.”

“Wow, worked that out all on your own, did you brother?” Fili got shoved for that.

“Do _you_?”

“No.”

“He won’t leave a child alone out here. Not with trolls and all.”

“I don’t think she is that--a child I mean.” Fili said with Kili quickly concurring.

“Look at her. She’s a bit too...uh...buxom? to call a child.”

Bilbo snickered. Apparently buxom for dwarves was different than for hobbits. He would have called her lacking. Substantially. His fauntling nieces were better stacked before they were tweens. But the dwarves did look for a few moments before she noticed that the guarding had become staring. She also noticed the focus of the stares.

“ _Gofuckyourselves_.”

Dwalin chortled, “I don’t know what language she’s speakin’ but I’m pretty sure I know what about that one meant. I’ve heard it enough different ways by now.”

“Yeah. That was pretty clear. The hand gesture helped.”

“But the main point Dwalin. If she’s a dwarrow-dam, why doesn’t she have a beard?”

“She’s too young. Probably not more’n thirty.”

“But she’s too thin. Not starved, just too skinny to be a dwarrow.” Kili persisted.

They fell silent. She was. Even under the bizarre collection of clothing and cloth they could tell. That first night they’d been too dumb-struck to really pay any attention to more than the fact that she was screaming and possibly trying to kill Thorin.

“Mixed blood then?” Nori suggested.

“Maybe, she is a bit tall for a dwarrow dam.”

“Does look a bit like a shrunken elf.”

“Wrong ears.”

“Hobbit.”

“Too tall and wrong feet.”

“Still out here alone.”

“Has been since we left the Shire.”

“Maybe she’s not actually alone?”

“The orcs?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe the Rangers can keep ahold of her.”

“You think so?”

“Nope. Too stubborn.”

“See _that’s_ why I’m still voting dwarrow-dam.”

“Still uncle’s decision.”

“Actually, here he comes.”

Thorin had stayed to speak with the wizards, but by the steam Bilbo could almost see wisping out his ears it hadn’t gone well. He wasted no time after joining them. “Has she said anything new? Any explanation?”

“Nothin’ Thorin, just a lotta yellin’.”

He turned to glare. Bilbo tried not to snicker. Dwarves apparently taught their kings nothing about diplomacy and manners but entire courses on how to stand majestically with dramatic lighting and their hair luffing in the breeze.

She must have seen him come back. It would have been hard to miss, Bilbo knew, stomping obnoxious majestic fellow that the King was, he didn’t exactly sneak through the woods like an elf.  

The lass marched over to them quickly, furious enough that they all shifted grips on their weapons. “ _Okaythisisnearlyaasfarfromidealasitcouldbe. Butwearegoingtorunoutoftime. Idontknowhowmuchgotcutinediting. Sowedothisrightnow. PleasePleasedontstabme_.” Bilbo quirked his head. She was gearing up for something. On any day they saw her, she always seemed to be stuck between trying to help them and wanting to beat them to death with their own boots.

Today it looked like Thorin was about to get slapped again.

Bilbo hummed delightedly.

That had been a great moment. And he had deserved it, stealing her knife like that. The dwarf had been utterly insufferable for a full week after, but the gob-struck look Bilbo had promptly memorized had been worth it.

His inner Took trilled in anticipation at having a second image to ponder when he was being maligned and abused by their obtuse, obstinate leader.

But she didn’t.

She stopped midstride. She searched him up and down, eyes growing wider by the second. All the lovely anger that Bilbo had expected to result in slapping melted into terror. “ _Ohnononononono. Cock. Coooooooock_.” Spinning on her heel she scurried towards Bilbo where he had been observing the scene. It was a pity he missed the protective way the Company jumped when she got close to him. It was rather sweet. For all the insults and bluster, they were rather fond of their hobbit. Especially after the ridiculous evening the night before.

Instead, he watched passively as she manhandled him for a moment.

“ _Shit. ItisReallyeasytodisruptthingshere. Butyouneedyourswords. Ifnothingelse_ Gandalf _needs_ Glamdring _sohecantakecareofthe_ Balrog _thatshangingoutin_ Moria.Thorin _canjustfuckoffaboutOrcrist. AndSting. Ehhhhhhhh? No. Nonono. Youneedstingjustasmuch. Thatletteropenerisprettydamnimportant_. Sam _isgoingtoneedit. Sodoyou_.”

She was upset again. Not angry, just upset.

With wizards murmuring behind him and dwarves glowering in front of him, Bilbo tried to look friendly. “Yes.” He added helpfully with his most winning smile.

Which is probably why she smirked, tugged at his coat--filthy as it was-- and ran off into the Trolls’ hoard.

He turned to see the others, gesturing impatiently for him to follow her. He gestured back, succinctly. Thorin sort of glared and flailed an arm at him, silently saying ‘get in the cave before we toss you in Burglar.’ With a groan of absolute disgust, and wishing once more to just lay down against a friendly looking tree and have a doze, dwarves be damned, he headed after her.

He had been right about the smell. It would be months before that particular stench worked its way out of his nostrils. Resigned to the fact that everything he ate in the foreseeable future would not only be miserable cram, but also lightly seasoned with a lingering scent of troll filth to boot, he stepped inside.

But she was scrambling through all of it with barely more than an occasional _hurrrk_ of repressed retching. She was muttering again, low and fast.

In her defense, if Bilbo and Bofur were right, she had been travelling alone since the Shire; that was sure to shut off anyone’s internal censor. Plus she was speaking a lost tongue and couldn’t rightly talk to anyone. Didn’t help, he was sure.

Eventually she let out a sound of victory and then another, and after a few more muttered curses -- he thought they were curses, they sounded angry -- she shouted a third time and hurried towards him. Thorin had given several lengthy and painfully stilted lectures on how the Company was not to consort with her in any way as she was too mysterious to be trusted.

Of course he had also been flapping about and insisting Bilbo follow just now. Useless daft contradictory dwarf.

Bilbo jumped when she held out a small sword to him. A Sword. Well, if he was honest with himself, and he did always try to be, it was someone’s discarded knife. For him it looked right to be a short sword though. As if he had ever held a short sword, or any other sword or any weapon outside of the small armory the dwarves had unceremoniously dumped into his arms.

It was amazing he hadn’t gashed his arms open that night.

“For me?” He half-squeaked, glad the company had not followed them inside to hear his undignified expulsion. “Oh no, but I don’t-- I really. It’s very nice that is, but I don’t know how to use one.”

Away from the dwarves she smiled without her general venom, making a show of holding it to her chest then pressing it lightly into his hands.  “Well, of course, it would be terrible manners to turn down a gift. This is from you to me then?”

“For Me? You?” She stammered in Common, gesturing in the wrong direction.

Bilbo smirked. He was giddy. He was right. Had been from the start too. If Thorin had listened for half a sentence back in Bag End this all could have gone down far smoother. He corrected her, pointing, then took her hand to show he was saying it from her perspective and repeated it again.

“Thankyou Bilbo. _Ifwedontgeteatenbywargsinthenextfewhours… wellmaybe…. yes. Illgiveyouyourotherpresent. Butfornow. Wargsorcsandrunning. Thenonto_ Rivendell. _Dontworryyoulllikeit. Butnowwehavetohurrybacktothestubborntwitswaitingoutside._ ”

He blinked, catching only two words. He should have known his giddiness wouldn’t last. There was a long road to travel between two words and full paragraphs.

She dragged him along with her, running them both straight into the advancing forms of Thorin and Dwalin. With a snort of “ _Ohteethreemuch_?” She pushed past them and stood waiting on a large rock while they blustered about for a few moments.

“You should be grateful that your rash --”

Bilbo looked up from his very pretty elvish? Yes, definitely elvish, blade, when Thorin cut off. He had been picking off cobwebs and flicking off mud when he heard the sound responsible, but it was Thorin of all people shutting his trap that was interesting.

Yep.

She had pulled a sword on Thorin.

A gorgeous sword.

Not that the dwarves were paying attention to aesthetics.

And really, looking at it objectively from outside the circle of various weaponry now pointed at her, she had simply pulled the sword out, and it was only due to proximity that it seemed to be aimed at the king.  But with that myriad sharp implements at hand, Bilbo wasn’t going to speak up about the difference.

Smiling as if there weren’t half a dozen stabby deaths hovering around her she dropped the blade back into the sheath. Moving purposefully, she flipped it and held it towards Thorin.

She snapped a quick look over to Bilbo, and then said carefully, “For you. Orcrist. Thorin.” Then she unsheathed the other blade a few inches, nodding. “Glamdring. Gandalf.”

Accented, and with strange intonation, but Common tongue. As short as it was. Bilbo could have done a dance. If had gotten sleep the night before and had eaten since noon yesterday that is. He could _feel_ the dwarves’ confusion.

“ _OkaygladthatHodoringworked. Nowpleasedontstabmewithyourshinynewtoy. Whichyoureallydontdeserve. Butitwouldbeveryrude. Andwhilethatwouldbeparforthecourse… letsskipitshallwe?_ ”

“What is Orcrist?”

She hesitated, then tapped the sword.

“How know you the name of this blade?”

That was too much to ask. She frowned. “ _Sorryboys. Thatsasmuchtimeaswehaveforlanguagelessonstoday. Thereisdefinitelyanorcpacknearby. Wevegotthenecessariesfromthecave. Weshouldskedaddle_.”

The dwarves looked to Bilbo. Because, having spent all of three minutes alone around her he should now be fluent.

“No idea.”

“I thought you were so much better at languages than I, burglar?”

Well. That certainly required retaliation, and the Took was happy to oblige.

She disagreed. “Bilbo! _Isawthat. Flirtwithyourhunkydwarflater. Orcsandwargsnowplease._ Thorin. _Theyreallyneedtobethepriorityhere. Andwherethedizzyfuckdid_ Gandalf _getoffto_?” She spun, looking, then drew the blade she had named as Glamdring partly out of its filthy sheath.

It was glowing.

“ _Fuck_.”

Not much, but a faint blue was coming off it that couldn’t be explained by a trick of the eye or strange effect of the woods.

“A Magical weapon in a troll hoard?” Kili asked.

“Unlikely.”

“Bilbo. Thorin. _Lookatyourfuckingswords. Nowforfuckssake!_ ”

She was furious.

They had no idea why.

So she was also frustrated.

“GANDALF!” She called, then knocked Fili’s sword out of her way to step closer to Thorin. She drew his new sword to show the glow to him and looked up at Bilbo.

Fortunately he had already followed suit, and had his small blade drawn.

“What is the meaning of this Magajjajûna?” The threat was obvious in his voice.

“ _Thereareorcs_.”

“Are these weapons spelled? Enchanted?”

“ _Orcsyouhalfwit_.”

“How did you know they were to be found here?”

“ _Forfucks….stopthreateningmeandworkitout. Thereisabloodyorcpackcoming_. Gandalf?!”

The wizards finally emerged from their conversation as the blade--Orcrist apparently--settled against her neck. Taking his cue, the other dwarves nearby did similar, effectively penning her in place while the wizard approached.

Bilbo joined them thinking that she might answer him more quickly than Thorin.

She didn’t turn to look at him.

Eye to eye with Thorin and ignoring the weapons, she held out the third blade vaguely towards the wizard, declaring, “Glamdring. Gandalf,” without breaking her glare.

“These are excellent swords. They were made by the high-elves of Gondolin.”

“What of it?” Thorin asked, also maintaining eye contact.

“The ancient magics still hold. The blades glow blue when Orcs or goblins are nearby.”

Damned dramatic Wizard.

Disturber of the peace indeed.

Though it wasn’t his declaration that sent them all scurrying. That simply alarmed them.

There was a rumbling growl nearby, and Bilbo jerked in place. He recognized the sound from their nights on the road.

Wargs.

Now, all of the dwarves were probably about to jump into action as they realized what was happening, but she was not willing to wait. She turned quickly and without warning, pointing up the hill.

They dwarves were forced to yank their weapons away. If they hadn’t, she would have been skewered by accident. Mostly by accident. Okay, Orcrist really wouldn’t have been such an accident. But mysterious as she was, they were not in the habit of killing stray, unarmed females.

And fast as they were, she still had a bit of blood dripping down her neck as they killed the beast.

“Warg scout! Which means an orc pack cannot be far behind!” Thorin shouted, and the world came crumbling down around Bilbo. Hearing them nearby was another thing altogether from having them rushing into their midst and dying a few steps away from him.

His mouth repeated the important information and then tumbled over itself while the wizard and the king argued. They were bickering about how to escape the pack.

Just standing there bickering like fauntlings over the last piece of buckleberry pie.

Like there wasn’t a dead warg on the ground just there.

Like they had all the time in the world to chat.

Like the ponies hadn’t just bolted.

Bilbo was starting to get properly Tookish, ready to step in and bash some heads together--verbally. Reaching the wizards to whap their heads would require a rather indecorous leap to achieve, and that would surely undermine any intimidation the resultant whapping would produce.

It was unnecessary though.

“I’Khizi!” Well. That was the fastest the dwarves had ever stopped talking. He was sure of that. A couple had just given themselves whiplash. She continued, back in her normal gibbering tongue. “ _Sorrythatwasjustabouttheonly_ Khuzdul _thatIknow. thatandsomeinsults._ Radagast _takethedamnsledandyour_ Rhosgoebel _rabbitsandgosouth_. Gandalf. _everybodyelse_. Rivendell.” There were a great many gestures involved, but after the brown wizard declared that the Rhosgoebel’s could outrun even Gundabad wargs, Gandalf stopped fighting.

She watched, pestering Radagast towards his sled.

Then froze with a hand touching her shoulder.

“ _FuckfuckfuckIleftmypacks_. Gandalf. Rivendell. _Dontfuckthisup_.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and sprinted towards where they had first found her.

Thorin let out a primal half-yell, half-groan of frustration and gestured. Kili, Fili, and Nori followed her. Sent to fetch their mysterious follower and prevent her being eaten by wargs. That way they could yell more later.

Then Gandalf was rattling off instructions. Thorin grabbed Bilbo by the arm, and they were running East with the sound of orcs and wargs on their heels.

Bilbo wasn’t exactly feeling confident.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my madness.  
> This is the result of the Imagine I wrote that is now the summary. And since she got no explanation, neither did you. Her dialogue is Meant to be skippable, but possible to read if you want, and it does get easier as you read more of it. It is my compromise with having everyone speaking english and not, at the same time.  
> We are headed for an emotional roller coaster with this one. Mephestopheles can attest to that.  
> I really hope you enjoyed it, because it amuses me to no end, and please please let me know if the hover text is off or missing.  
> Or if you like it/hate it/have suggestions.  
> Or if you'd like to burn me in effigy or something.


	2. Gonna Get 'Et

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we run from Wargs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send all love to Mephestopheles who betas and collaborates and listens to me complain and keeps me writing. Meph is the very very best, and you wouldn't be reading this without them pestering me. 
> 
> As will always be the case in this fic: There is violence, obscenity and sexual content ahead.  
> Underlined Khuzdul has hover text translations.

Bilbo Baggins was going to get himself eaten by a warg.

The general respectability of the Company would be pretty well soiled if that happened. Also, Dwalin had never seen anyone get away with so much backtalk to Thorin. For either reason, it was very important to Dwalin that the hobbit survive the day.

If possible.

But running from a pack of orc ridden wargs would be difficult if they had all slept soundly the night before, and had a hearty breakfast today.

Instead they were running powered by nothing more than force of will. Except the hobbit, who was not so much running as he was being dragged. Yes, his feet were moving, but there was a hand locked around his arm that was -- well, let’s call it _gently_ \-- encouraging him to move at a pace that matched the others. Dwalin would be asking his king about that particular action later. Again, assuming they were alive at the end of the day.

Which was looking likely while they were in the woods. Gandalf was leading them just south of due east, and the company was spread behind him. Dwalin was at the rear to watch for pursuit, and to break off to the princes, if need arose.

Thorin had given him a quick meaningful look and nod as the wizard gave orders. They had been shield brothers long enough for that to be all that was necessary.  No time for long-winded rambling when lives were on the line.

Of course, the lads were excellent fighters. And Nori had an unnatural talent for surviving when he shouldn’t. The three were easily the fastest runners, so they had been the clear choice to fetch her.

But they would have to cut across the woods to rendezvous and only had a vague gist of the direction to go.

All because of the lass.

If she got them killed or hurt, it would be a toss up on who would kill her first, Dwalin or Thorin. Maybe they could share.

He had to trust the lads though. He had trained them after all. He had seen what Kili could do when he wasn’t getting distracted by a passing skirt. He had seen what Fili could do when he wasn’t distracted by saving his brother.

They’d be fine.

The group reached the end of the trees and the wizard held there, listening, waiting before running forward again.

Dwalin could hear the cry of wargs in the distance.

Chasing the brown wizard most likely.

But some were closer, and from the north side of them. The wizard had led them south.

He gestured to Thorin who nodded sharply back and shushed the hobbit. Their burglar had managed to wrench his arm free, and was keeping apace of the others better than Dwalin would have expected. Excellent. Maybe the halfling would only get himself killed one day instead of getting them all killed.

Ahead of him, Ori fell jumping over a steep ditch. That was another one he had to watch out for. The hobbit had the excuse of having been raised amongst peaceful folks, but  the scribe was a dwarf, raised in Ered Luin, and should have been proficient in more than just that slingshot. He’d arrange some lessons.

Dwalin gestured at Dori who had turned to come back and help. Gestured, not shouted the khuzdul obscenity that was on his tongue. Shouting while trying to hide was never the best choice.

Dori didn’t always make the best choices.

“Is he alright?”

Dwalin glanced the scribe over as he hauled him to his feet and, finding nothing wrong, shoved him forward before gesturing an affirmative. When he stumbled himself a few minutes later, he was surprised and grateful for Ori’s arm which caught him in the chest and stopped him landing face first on the ground.

Ori nodded in acknowledgement of the faint “thank you” he signed without thinking. A quick push got the scribe back to the others.

Then they were back to the hunt, and they were still on the wrong end of it. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nori wasn’t certain if the clause in the contract covering release of obligation due to extraordinary obstacles could be invoked after the events of the past day, but if it could -- and if they could outrun or defeat the blasted orcs -- he planned to exercise it. Then he planned to bugger off. To Ered Luin and his criminal contacts eventually, probably to Bree first. There he could refill both his purse and his belly with ease and in relative comfort.

If they survived the day, which he wasn’t going to bet on. Dwarves had rarely been graced with a surplus of good fortune in the last few centuries.

Fili and Kili were just ahead of him, moving easily up and over fallen trees and boulders like the overgrown goats they were. Nori was by no means old, scarcely even middle aged in fact, but he couldn’t just rabbit his way over a boulder half as tall as he was.

Of course they wouldn’t have to be hurdling over the landscape if it weren’t for the obnoxious creature that kept trailing them.

Nori did not like her.

Mostly because Thorin turned into even more of a khulut’targtîth than normal whenever she showed up. Partly because Nori didn’t like to see folk get killed, and that little scrap of a thing was definitely going to die if she kept on like she was.

As far as they had seen, she had no weapon but a work knife, shorter than her hand and of no use when she inevitably got caught up by orcs or wolves or bandits. But worrying about it would make him start to feel responsible, and he didn’t have time for that either.

Thus: Nori did not like her.

His own brothers were enough of a problem. Neither of them had a lick of sense, and neither were as hard-shelled as the Men Nori consorted with. Maybe not a good comparison. His work involved some rather steely-eyed sorts.

And the gormless, incomprehensible little thing had sprinted off into the trees without a backwards glance. There were wargs about -- she knew that -- and she still took off running.

Yes, she was definitely going to come down with a case of dead sooner rather than later.

Hopefully not today. Not while he was watching.

They broke into the clearing in time to see her sliding to an undignified tumbling stop in the wet grass next to her packs. “Mahal wept woman! This was for your bags?” Kili yelled as he reached her.

The three dwarves were ready to haul her to her feet and sprint, but she kept yanking out of their grip to finish what she was doing. “ _LetmegoyouAsshat! Whyareyouevenhere? Youidiotshaveneverhelpedme? Nowyouare? StopthatIneedthatbag! Gimmethirtyseconds. Whythefuckareyouhelpingnow? Twomorestrapsaaaaaaannnnnd. Yesdonegogonow!_ ” She finally conceded once her third bag was strapped in place, and with a jerk in the right direction, they all started running again.

Unarmed.

It was really the only thing Nori was thinking about as they hit the tree line once more, angling to catch the others. Their pudgy halfling was better prepared.

“What in Durin’s name is in those bags magajj?” Fili shouted angrily over his shoulder. The lads agreed with him then.

“Why would you run towards an orc pack?”

“Are you insane or suicidal?”

“ _Shutupandrun_.”

“How are you not dead yet?” Nori yelled at her when he grabbed her arm and pulled her faster forward.

The rangers deserved more credit if this area was safe enough for a solitary female whatever-she-was to travel for nearly two months without dying in a ditch along the road. The lads had pulled away a bit, bounding onto and over and under obstacles like damned amalfund prancers. And Nori was pretty well distracted by the bottomless well of stupid running next to him.

So no, he didn’t hear the Warg coming. And then he was too shocked to catch himself when he tripped after he did notice it.

He came to his senses in time to hear the lads’ startled shouts and running feet. He also got to watch the warg turn and angle towards her.

Great.

At least he was right about her being dead in the immediate future.

Small comforts, you know? He was going to watch her get et but at least he was right.

Except she had a club. Actually, she had Nori’s club; she must have snagged it as he fell. As Nori scrambled to his feet, and as the princes hurried back, she, calm as could be, clocked the charging warg across the face with it. She swung hard enough that the heavy weapon nearly took her over, and only caught herself at the last moment. The warg’s howl of pain and fury was extraordinarily loud as it picked itself up to finish its charge.

Nori yelled, and it sparked her into moving again. She slammed his club down like a hammer into the Warg’s skull just as the princes got there. The subsequent stabbing was unnecessary, though a good precaution.  

But now they had a new problem. She was just standing there, staring at a dead warg with bugged out eyes and an open mouth while bits of blood and brain and bone left tracks on her face and clothes.

“Nori what happened?” That was Fili, sounding, as he occasionally did, like the crown prince he was.

“I got tripped up, she got me club and then…” Nori trailed into a gesture since it was rather obvious what had happened after. Her hands were still on the staff. And she still hadn’t moved. He took back his weapon, with effort, and she still stared.

“First kill. Great.” Fili was right. At least, going by the poleaxed look she now had he was.

“Hey! Yes! Hey! Well done, Nice kill, We need to catch the others!” Kili shouted, shaking her by the shoulder.

Still no response.

“We don’t have time for this. Snap out of it or we leave you.” Fili said, grabbing her chin to force her to turn. Still nothing. Nori and Kili gave him significant looks. They had to get moving, they’d never actually leave her, and carrying her wasn’t really an option. “Ach, fine.”

So Fili slapped her: hard enough to snap her out of it, which was also hard enough to leave a neat pink handprint over her cheek.

The dwarves winced. She had no beard to cushion the hit.

It worked a tad better than expected. She was no longer dazed, which was excellent news. But as Nori reached for her other arm to help drag her along, she slapped Fili back.

“ _Thatwasrudeyoufuckwit_.”

Then grabbed him by his sleeve and started running.

It really wasn’t the time to be chuckling at the brief expression that had crossed both the lads’ faces. There were wargs and orcs and Durin knows what else hounding them. They hadn’t found the others yet. And they’d all probably be dead by dusk. But, that didn’t stop their gobsmacked jaw drops from being funny. Too young to think of stray lasses as ought but damsels in distress or in need of a rescue. More often than not in Nori’s experience, they proved to be some form of killer or another.

Maybe she wasn’t quite as vulnerable as he’d worried.

The lads bracketed her as they ran though, likely concerned they had done something wrong before.

They caught up with the others midway across a boulder strewn field, and they flung themselves behind a low hill when they heard the pack approach. It was hours of chasing and hiding. Running and ducking. And it was driving Nori crazy. One brother was having trouble keeping pace--he’d never acknowledge it, but Dori was struggling. The other brother kept getting too far ahead. Twice now a company member had dragged Ori back to safety behind a stone. And Nori couldn’t be everywhere at once.

Copses of trees, open plains, boulder fields; all of it had to be traversed and it was a damned miracle they hadn’t been found, killed, and gobbled down already. The land had opened up again after another clump of trees and they finally ran out of luck.

The pack that had nearly had them all afternoon was circling them, and other than some scattered rocks, there was no cover or shelter.

He heard Thorin bellow, “Stand your ground!”

He saw Ori trying to be brave with his slingshot, and his younger brother was obviously out of his mind with fear, since he was normally murder with that thing, and had just missed the warg’s eye entirely.

Gandalf was missing. He had no idea what had happened to the little creature.

Bilbo was beside Bofur and Bifur holding that little blue sword of his and looking about as intimidating as if it had been a ladle.

Most of the rest of the company was ranged too far apart to be helped by their fellows.

Terrible situation all around.

If they lived through this, Nori was most definitely going to bugger off. He’d drag his brothers with him, tie them up in the troll’s sacks if he had to and head for the first inn large enough to have a dicing table. He’d make a quick purse, or just rob the occupants blind, and head back home where life was miserable but just kept trudging onwards without anyone getting et by wargs.

It was a great plan. Now to make it to the first step.

Survive the next hour.

There was some shouting beside him, and he saw their visitor dragging Ori back from the approaching orcs exactly like their mother used to do to them in the market, her rambling interspersed angrily with Ori’s repeated name.  He wasn’t sure where they were going, but ‘further from wargs’ seemed like a reasonable start. That left Nori to focus on Dori.

Dori, who seemed ready to go on the offensive. The idiot.

Then there was an angry shout behind him.

He noticed after a moment that it came from the wizard. A day and a half without sleep had him a bit slow on the uptake. The rush of the fight could only keep him moving at speed for so long. Mercifully, the Wizard beckoned them all over, as if to safety. A quick flare of panic at where Ori had gotten to tightened Nori’s chest until he slid down the rock and found him below.

Climbing back up would have been miserable.

Warhorns, hoofbeats, and elves all thundered above them. Fortunately, the Company all had somehow made it safely into the hidden passage Gandalf had found.

Their success had been a matter of luck and nothing else. But when a dwarf finds himself lucky one day, he expects it to balance out on the next.

They’d had quite a bit of luck lately.

Nori knew the next days were going to blow.

 

* * *

 

 

Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

The running, the adrenaline and the re-appropriation of softball skills to kill a creature the size of a bear had her a bit disturbed.

She was away from the dwarves where they couldn’t see, but if she didn’t get it under control unknown quantity of dwarves, elves, and be-bothered hobbits would probably put up a fuss. Flexing them, shaking them, and a quick drink of water did nothing to help. So she just clenched them into fists and checked her packs.

“Stupid fucking Wargs. I hate you so much PJ. So. So Much.”

She waited to see Thorin slide down the stone into the passage before she started walking. The others she had already glanced over, looking for unexpected injuries. He was the last. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if any of them had been hurt, other than hand over one of her bags to Oin and feel guilty. But other than a very faint trace of pink on Fili’s cheek from where she had slapped him, they were all well.

Based on the heat she could still feel, her own face was brighter.

Stupid miserable dwarves.

She started off down the passage, furious, and thought back on how very wrong she had been on her arrival here.

...............................

Just shy of two months earlier, as April drew to a close, she woke up in a lump with her purse and her water bottle under the Party Tree. Yes, _the_ Party Tree. That one. The one in Hobbiton.

The only Party Tree that matters, really.

Because, apparently she was going to have the best dream ever tonight. It didn’t matter what stairwell or fire escape or bathroom floor she was actually dozing on, because sweet holy Tolkien.

Party. Tree.

She didn’t actually recall going out drinking or… ah…. _indulging_ , but that happened sometimes. She hadn’t really done much of either in a few years, ever since graduation in fact, but this thing was already underway, so she didn’t feel like wasting time worrying about the how of it.

“Oh I am going to be so pissed off when I wake up. This is amazing. Look at those flowers! This is….WOW just. Well done brain, or booze, or drugs. Whatever is responsible for this. Okay. Actually, probably not smart to be thanking drugs. Anyways. Yes. So I guess this is like lucid dreaming then? Neat. Okay. Step one, Bag End. That’s always step one in figuring things out. And once I know what year it is in here-- or wait, can I just decide which one I want? That’d be nice. Oooh, can I just skip to happily ever after sexy times in...in...Gondor with Faramir! No! With Merry! No. Ooooooh. There it s. Erebor. Ohhhh yes please. Brain, can I just skip to that? One reclaimed Kingdom of the Longbeards please! One where the line of Durin was just a bit less idiotic and understood the point of staying together and wearing sturdy armor, and so are just sitting around merrily drinking and being ridiculously attractive lumps? No! Young Aragorn! Holy God I forgot about Young Hot Aragorn! That one please!”  She scrunched up her face and focused. “Okay apparently not. So there’s rules to this lucid dreaming thing. Very good to know.”

She left her purse and her coat by the tree, assuming they’d probably vanish when she stopped looking at them, and found Bag End easily enough. Not that it was hard. How did Thorin miss it? Biggest hill around, large tree on top, green door. Done and done.  Stepping inside the gate she looked around and did a bouncing jig in place. Because right there on the door, was a funny little glowing rune.

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

She couldn’t stop giggling.

“Dwarves dwarves dwarves dwarves dwarves. Yayayayayayay. Okay, I’m just the happiest little girl in the world now. Either world. All the worlds. Including magic imaginary hobbity dream world! I get to go on an adventure! Brain, I don’t know what I did to mess you up this badly, but I am going to do it all the time now. I don’t know what I drank, or smoked, or was dosed with, I don’t care if I’m unconscious in the rain behind a 7-11, but if that door opens and there are dwarves tormenting Bilbo, if I get to do the quest, I am going to have to do it more often. And fuck the consequences.”

She paused, glanced down. She was wearing her work clothes. Very odd. Her brain had conjured up all of Hobbiton down to individual flowers and plants but couldn’t be arsed to put her in something more appropriate? It had just left her in what she’d worn that day? Though, steel toed work boots and jeans was better than if her brain had her in a cocktail dress.

Actually.

Depending who opened the door, maybe a cocktail dress wouldn’t be so bad. Or some fitted riding leathers. She scrunched her face again, really hoping she’d look down to find something slinky when she opened them. Nope. Jeans. Work boots. Plain grey undershirt.

Lucid dreaming was super weird.

“Isn’t the whole point supposed to be that I can control the dream? Or maybe this is a drug thing? But shouldn’t it be less consistent? I mean, shouldn’t there be… I don’t know… the Burj Khalifa on the horizon or something? Things are going to be much harder if I have actually do some seducing. Hee, I said harder. _Ahrrm_. Right. Ok, fine, I was a fangirl, I can play by the rules. Well, sort of can.” She shook out her hands, quivering with happiness and knocked.

And because habits are hard to break, she knocked “Shave and a Haircut” just like her brother always did. Then clasped her hands behind her back and bounced on her heels while she waited. But after some shuffling and some grumbling beyond the door -- excellent sign, meant there actually were folks inside -- it eventually opened. Revealing a pair of brothers.

Problematically attractive brothers.

She hummed a bit at the sight before managing words.

“Oh sweet merciful fuck but wow. Yeah. Well now I really can’t let you just pop off and die. You’re way prettier in person. Not that I really think this dream thingy will last that long, so we’ll need to take advantage of the time now, won’t we? We can just skip the quest.” She winked and grinned, hearing herself, and Kili at least grinned back. “I can think of several activities to make up for the lack of it. Especially since I’m apparently dwarf-sized. So shouldn’t make the proportions all awkward. Aaaand apparently some combination of devastatingly attractive dwarves and weird lucid dreams has permanently disabled the mute button for my mouth, because I cannot seem to stop talking. Whatever. Dreaming. _Ahrrm_. Yes. Hi. Good evening.” She bobbed a half bow.

Two heads leaned to the side a bit, and, synchronized, tracked down, then back up again. They paused like they were about to speak, stopped, glanced at each other, then both heads tilted the other direction to keep staring at her.

They really were astoundingly pretty. All broad and silent and smelling like leather and the contents of Bilbo’s pantry. And just exuding this sense of strength and skill and--No, probably best not to go down that rabbit hole just yet. She at least wanted to get inside Bag End before the dream collapsed into carnal fantasy.

“Oh come on, it’s my dream, I can make a pass at you if I want. Can I come in? I figure you’ve eaten all the food by now, but I want to see the others too. I need to know how detailed my brain managed to make this so I can know how many times I need to re-read and re-watch before taking more of whatever did this and trying to get back here.

“I mean, I’m not surprised you two look super accurate. Lots of screen time, personal favorites, shamelessly because you’re just… wow. It’s absolutely not natural. It really isn’t, Fili.”

They flicked glances at each other and looked back with expressions that were less bemused and more wary.

“What? Does my brain want me to stay in character or something? Dammit Brain, can’t we just fast-forward? I don’t know how long I’ll be asleep.”

They turned to each other, and exchanged raised eyebrows, half nods, lip quirks and several significant looks back at her. It was practically twin-speak. Then Fili nodded sharply, and stepped away with a shouted, “Thorin! Akrisiki-ma milmal”

That was odd.

She hadn’t looked at khuzdul in years. Yeah, there were a few notable phrases that stood out in her head, but mostly it was forgotten. Or maybe Sherlock had it right and it was just a question of finding it. Which her brain had apparently done since that sounded accurate enough for her to believe it.

She shook her head.

“Lucid dreaming is weird Kili. Super duper weird.”

The brunette tensed further.

She twitched. This was her dream, why were they acting so oddly?

Low rumbling khuzdul preambled Fili’s return with Thorin and Dwalin in tow.

“Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. How are ya? Ready to take on Smaug and Azog? Do you mind if I take the lads here home as a door prize if I can keep ‘em alive? Or maybe take ‘em earlier? To be honest I’d prefer to just drag Fili off to a bed within the next few minutes and fuck until my brain decides to wake me up. But if that doesn’t work for you we can negotiate. I’ll leave your heir alone and settle for Kili as long as we throw Tauriel in on the deal too. Actually, who am I kidding, I'd take Tauriel any way I could get her.”

“ _WhoinDurinsnameareyou_?”

She gaped. The smile that had seemed permanently stretched over her cheeks faltered.

“ _Answermebeforewedecidetheriskisnotworthourcuriosity_.”

“Wait, what? Why can’t I understand you Thorin?” She glanced at the others. “Somebody else talk. Fili, use your words.”

“ _ShesbeenlikethissinceshearrivedUncle_.”

“Oh shit, why aren’t you speaking English? What is wrong with my brain?”

“ _Gogetthewizard_ Kili.”

“Wait, but I have the names right? This is not fucking fair!”

“ _Calmyourselflass_.”

“What the fuck did you say? Why the fuck can’t I understand you? This is my dream! This is my brain! I should at least be able to talk to you ninnies!” Dwalin stepped forward into a more defensive position of Durin’s line as she flapped her arms. “Oh come off it Baldy. Most dangerous thing I’ve got right now is my shoes and I don’t think I could actually kick anyone to death. I was always shit at soccer. Also. This is a Dream! In MY head! So eventually it’s just going to flip sideways and we’ll all sit down for tea and crumpets with Jane Eyre and Gumby and call it a night.  So stop glaring at me!”

She slapped him across the arm and regretted it. Her fingers stung and she rolled them around a few times, frowning at the bald dwarf who was frowning right back, unfazed by her paltry attack.

“ _Andwhathaveyoufoundhere_?” The low baritone had to be Gandalf. She turned, and, yes, one enormous wizard in a rumpled grey robe had just ducked into the foyer.

“Shit, I was really hoping you at least would speak english and my brain was making up a thing for them. This is incredibly unfair. Best dream ever just got shot to hell ‘cause this isn’t working for me.”

“ _Perhapsthisisabetterconversationtohaveindoors_.”

Dwalin reached for her, and she fell back, off the first step, ready to run.

Even if she would be wasting a fabulous possibility, she could always just go get dream-drunk with a bunch of Hobbits at the Green Dragon until whatever this was wore off. Different kind of fun, but better than grumpy incomprehensible dwarves. Though she was starting to think that this was less of a glorious dream and more of a malicious drug induced hell.

“ _Bringher_.” Thorin ordered.

Strong hands caught her shoulders and suddenly she was in Bag End with the door clicking shut behind her.

...............................

 

She shook her head of the memory. It didn’t help to dwell on how completely she had ruined things that first night. Especially what she had said in the parlor.

They weren’t pleased with her marching off without them. Not that they were ever pleased with her. And answering what she was fairly certain was a query about her destination with a barked, “Rivendell!” had done nothing to ingratiate herself to them. At this rate, Thorin really would have her head off next time she pushed him.

“Fandom. Fandom. Fandom. Think of the Fandom. Think about the echoing screams of a million broken hearted Fangirls. And Fanboys. Mustn’t forget the fanboys. You’re representing a noble people, mustn’t let them down. Stabbing Thorin in the leg with a fork would definitely be letting them down. Fandom. Fandom. Fandom.”

Her original mantra was losing its usefulness. The temptation to make nice with the elves was growing even if it would nail shut any chance of the dwarves trusting her.

Rivendell was good enough for Bilbo, it could work for her.

She could learn Sindarin with the Elves. Maybe Quenya. She’d be the undisputed Queen of Nerds if she could manage full fluency before going home. They would probably even help her learn it, unlike the bastards that were tromping along behind her. Then, after the idiots got themselves killed, she could snag Bilbo on his way home, have a quick chat, and wrap up the Ring Quest easy peasy before Sauron even woke up properly.

“Besides,” She grumbled, “based on the math, there’s a twenty-something Estel in the Hidden Valley.” She heard what she had just said and started to giggle. She needed sleep. But if an eighty-seven year old Aragorn looked like she knew he did….Yes, staying in Rivendell was starting to sound better and better. “Sorry lads.”

Except.

She glanced over her shoulder at Thorin and Bilbo squabbling like kids on the playground. They were half an inch from pulling braids and tattling to teacher. Thorin stomped back up to Balin and Dwalin and the princes, fuming, but with a faint crinkling around his eyes like he was trying not to smile.

Bilbo was even worse, smirking outright, and downright smoldering at the leader of the company. Not for very long, mind, but she saw it.

They deserved -- No. Scratch that -- _Bilbo_ deserved some happiness. If it made Thorin happy, that would be a byproduct. But Bilbo ought to have every chance of seeing that smolder reciprocated. Maybe she could manage it while they were in Rivendell. A bit of wine, some nice music, a bit more wine, maybe trip Bilbo into Thorin’s lap? That always seemed to work in fics. Maybe it would work here.

Then she could watch them march off towards the Goblins without guilt.

Right. She had a plan.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s not like we can just shove her out of this little walk and go on our merry way, Thorin.” Balin finally snapped.

The king was whining, again, about the little scrap of a young’un that Mahal had seemingly saddled them with. Not that Balin was any happier about it, but he also wasn’t going to argue with strange wenches depositing packs of oilskins two days before a six day downpour. The incident back in the hobbit’s house before the start of all this was simply a lamentable confusion in his opinion.

He had, of course heard about it several times from his king in the first week. Balin had been inclined to agree with Thorin’s assessment that she was “at best mysterious and at worst malicious.” He had not pointed out that the ambiguity of his statement rendered any conclusions it drew useless.

Thorin could be rather stubborn.

This was part of why he had so doggedly refused to hear Balin and Bilbo’s suggestions that a person with no shared language likely had a completely separate base of reference for gestures as well. Except Thorin had considered it an insult to his grandfather, and that was the end of that.

Gandalf had offered no explanation for the passageway, nor any comment on the lass’ shout of “Rivendell.” But as Balin had seen a map in his lifetime, and had heard the Elvish horns blowing, he did not need it confirmed. They were walking to Rivendell.

Which was sure to plunge Thorin into an even darker mood.

After the journey so far, Balin, on the other hand, would be happy to treat with Elves in order to sleep in a bed and eat at a table.

“She is an unnecessary risk.” Thorin snapped back at him. Right. He had been conversing with the king.

“Will you at least allow one of us to speak with her? Just briefly? She has seemed more willing to--”

“No.”

“If she can learn a bit of language she may be able to explain--”

“I said no, Balin. Her intent is, as you have repeatedly informed me, obvious, but I will not allow her to join us. If she does not kill us in our sleep, she would be a liability larger than the halfling.”

“Excuse Me!” Bilbo yelled from behind them.

“Actually….” Kili said beside them before Thorin could turn to berate their burglar and further increase the betting pool. “Uh, actually Uncle, she’s not exactly defenseless.”

“How do you mean?”

“She killed a warg.”

Thorin stopped walking at that.

“You said she was unarmed.”

“She was. She stole Nori’s staff. Smashed its head in. Fi and I saw the uh… the aftermath. I mean, Fi stabbed it a bit, but it was already dying.” For just a moment Thorin’s face lost it’s scowl in deference to surprise. Balin took advantage of it.

“She also brought us those oilcloths.”

“And Mister Baggins’ coat.” Kili added. Balin could only hope that the younger Prince was trying to help change Thorin’s edict. They had not spoken about this.

“As well as his handkerchiefs.”

“She _knew_ he’d left them.”

“And she knew that storm was coming.”

“And she gave you that elf-sword.”  

“It seemed she knew the swords were in there.”

“Maybe she can read portents or something, Uncle.”

“Such things have been seen before, Thorin.”

“I don’t trust her.” Dwalin interrupted, just as the king’s resolve was starting to waver.

Thorin waited a moment, looking at the small council around him. Balin was reminded briefly why he followed him. The king surveyed them each before settling his gaze on his heir.

“You have said nothing, Fili.”

“No, Uncle.”

“Would you trust her?”

“No.” Fili did not hesitate.

Thorin nodded, the decision made. Balin groaned internally; he would have to wait at least a few days before re-raising the argument. The princes split away, whispering too softly to overhear. Thorin slowed to walk beside the burglar once more, looking nonchalant; as if none of the others had noted the infatuation.

Balin slowed to find Gloin and increase his bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has reviewed. It get all bubbly and delighted when I get a notification. Especially since I keep worrying that its just too much trash to continue. Except I really want to write some of the later scenes...
> 
> Rivendell and more of her arrival are up next.


	3. A Busy Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we arrive in Rivendell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All glory goes to Mephestopheles without whom I would probably still be thinking my way out of the first corner I hit.  
> Also, just so it's been said: the tags and the title aren't a lie. Sexual themes ahead that will be around forevermore.  
> I have also added a word bank to the end notes since Mobile readers can't handle hover text.

Looking back later, while she trailed after them in the wilds beyond Bree with little to do but berate herself, she acknowledged that she couldn’t have made a worse impression without stabbing someone. Even then, as long as the stabbing had been mild, she might have gotten off as eccentrically dangerous.

Dwarves could respect that.

But no.

She had to go and bollocks it up while rambling about the recent history of Middle Earth. At the time, all she thought was that, apparently, the drug induced Dwarves in her brain were pretty picky about familial honor.

Once she realized they weren’t drug induced at all, she was shocked no one had disemboweled her on the spot.

They were sitting on plush chairs in a quiet room away from most of the company. The Durins, Dwalin, and Gandalf encircled her. Balin was trying to explain things to a recently awakened hobbit in the next room. The others were polishing off the last traces of food in the hobbit hole.

It had been going tolerably well. They were back to looking amused by her oddity as she rambled.

The protracted monologue of obscenities and insults directed at her own useless miserable brain was starting to stretch her creative capacity, but they were just observing in silence. There were brief detours in her tirade when she would point at one of the Durins and start lecturing on the singular importance of protecting the lineage. About chickens and baskets and how important armor was during battles. At one point she turned on Dwalin and berated him for several minutes on why the Princes couldn’t be trusted alone. Ever. At all. Not with ponies. Definitely not in battle.

The very short blade she had snatched off Fili’s belt was brandished back and forth as if she knew what she was doing. The dwarves watched it giving her the same look a child receives while playing pretend with their parents’ tools. How precious. Even when she gestured at Dwalin’s face and threatened to shave every hair, right down to the eyebrows, off his face if the Durin’s died, they all just watched. Like she was as intimidating as a houseplant.

When she actually touched his beard with the knife in the other hand, they had jumped up, shouting and threatening. It took a while to get them calmed back down with gestures and continued rambling.

And then there came a slight incident of foot-in-mouth disease.

“Oh, and by the way Thorin, do try to keep yourself and your hot nephews alive here. This is my brain and if this hell stretches on that long, I don’t want to watch them get all stabified and dead. I don’t seem to have much control over what’s going on here, but I’d like to avoid that. I mean, yeah, Azog.” She really should have noticed them all tense up. She wasn’t an idiot. She really should have noticed, “he must be pretty damn good in battle what with how he’s gonna kill you later and he’s missing a damn arm. I really did not need to see him, and him,” She pointed, “get all skewered and murdered. So just, in general, try to take him as a serious threat since he did _skrrrrt_ Thror’s head right off last time you two hung out.”

Turns out some hand gestures cross language barriers just fine.

They could move damn fast when they wanted to. Which they did. So she found herself against a wall with Fili’s short daggers at her throat and murderous eyes pinning her in place.

Which made it official.

This was no longer the best dream ever.

In fact, probably bottom five at this rate. If she got stabbed and dreamt about jugular exsanguination it would probably oust that freaky ‘vampires keeping humanity as livestock’ dream from its position as the worst dream of her life. They were on similar themes after all.

Something about this being almost the best experience of her life was making it that much more frustrating that not a damn bit of it was playing out properly. Plus, she couldn’t wake up. And wow, but she had tried. Pretty much had done little else in the last hour. That was one thing she had been sure about with lucid dreaming. There were certain tricks to make sure a person woke up. She knew them. None of it had helped. So, the drugs, which were her theory until proven otherwise, were apparently too strong.

This wasn’t fun anymore.

And just in case her grandmother and the Matrix were right, she wanted to wake up from her dream, not die for real because her brain short circuited when she died here.

The dwarves were growling in what was probably khuzdul, and she hadn’t paid them a bit of attention since steel touched skin. It was hard to think past the threat long enough to sort out the nuances of their speech patterns and try to decipher the meaning.

The rules of this stupid dream didn’t make any damned sense. She had very much cocked it up though.

Time to backpedal that little faux pas then.

Her efforts didn’t go well.

 

* * *

 

Rivendell was Gorgeous. It was no wonder that Bilbo had wanted to stay forever. Sweeping arches, flowing streams, gentle waterfalls, magnificent vistas, and very pleasant elves.

True, the height difference was still rather alarming. It was like being a child again, except that, unlike the Men of Bree, the Elves would stand at a reasonable distance or sit to accommodate her height and keep her from craning her neck. And they did so without it seeming patronizing. Yes, overall, she was quite pleased with the elves.

The company was less so.

That Thorin’s head hadn’t been excused from his shoulders for his immense dickitude upon arrival, was a testament to the eternal patience of their hosts. Or maybe they didn’t know what the khuzdul he was muttering meant. She had vaguely recognized a few words, and could guess the rest of it. Appalling manners. Although, noticing Bilbo’s pinched glare at the back of Thorin’s head during the exchange had been delightful.

She had liked the elves immediately. She knew that she would be forever crazy about them from the moment Lindir escorted her away from the others -- first point -- and showed her a small room with a bed -- second point -- and a proper bathroom -- third point -- attached to it.

They did not know who she was. They had not spoken to her. Thorin had made a comment and a gesture that had a distinct tone of “screw that bitch” when they first arrived. Elrond had raised an eyebrow. But that was all.

Then Lindir had arrived at her elbow and, using mime, invited her to rest, bathe and eat. After a few ridiculous moments of charades, they even managed to communicate that yes, she would love a loan of clothing so she could wash what she wore. Silently gesturing in what was half sign language, half a bow, and half substantial looks of gratitude, she managed to thank him. He bowed, and smiled, and left her in the chamber alone where she flopped onto the bed and promptly fell asleep.

Elvish beds were magical, but sleeping forever would have meant missing dinner, and her stomach was not going to allow that.

She changed out of her disgusting clothing, wiped off the worst of the filth with the ewer of water, and slipped into the dress-like robe and trousers Lindir had left inside the door. Her hair was just going to have to stay in a horrid knotted bun. The clothes were soft and supple and smelled good. Nothing had smelled good in weeks. So, she held them to her face and basked in the blissful flowery scent. They were several shades of green-- of course they were, they were elvish -- but they fit better than she had hoped. Lindir was going to get hugged in half later.

Then she started laughing.

“Oooh boy but Thorin’s not going to be pleased with this. Don’t care. And these are probably kids clothes. Don’t care about that either. Sorry line of Durin, you’re gonna have to fend for yourselves, good luck on Ravenhill, say hi to Azog for me. I’ll try to warn you before you sneak off about the big stuff. I’m just going to live with the elves forever and ever and--”

She cut off at the knock.

Lindir was back.  

More bowing and miming had her following him, barefoot, into an open room, and a small table with just three chairs set away from the dwarves and other elves. Lindir and a blonde, stoic elf she didn’t recognize sat with her. They were quiet, pleasant company. And, as she was no longer convinced she was in a drug induced hallucination, didn’t make a pass at them, try to kill them, or threaten their honored kin.

It really helped keep everything civil.

Lesson learned there.

She kept her mouth shut altogether in fact. She would deal with the godforsaken language gap tomorrow. In the meantime, they could just think her mute.

Instead, she watched the dwarves. Other than a brief glance from Nori and Bilbo as she entered,  they hadn’t acknowledged her. They were too busy carousing and carrying on like roadtripping frat boys at a rival house. Which, she had to admit, was basically what they were.  

After several millennia of practice, the elves seemed to have perfected the fine art of ‘placid bitch face.’ It was admirable how well they all maintained their calm in the face of rambunctious dwarven terrors.

And, while they were learning to be calm they had also mastered wine. It was sweet but not overly so, fruity--which was perfect for the season and the annoyingly vegetarian meal, and substantially more intoxicating than it seemed. So she was having a very pleasant evening. She couldn’t help her giggle when Bilbo told off an elf; it looked like the elf had said something rude in Sindarin about Thorin; Bilbo had understood and forced an apology.  Thorin gawked like the hobbit had just descended from the heavens with heraldic trumpets blaring.

Excellent.

Maybe it really would be possible to achieve Bagginshield before the Company left.

That was excellent news. If she could shove the two of them together early, Bilbo might have enough influence by the time they got to Erebor to bitch-slap the gold sick king around the mountain a few times. She had no doubt of Bilbo’s ability to slap him around right now, but he wouldn’t if there was a chance he might get skewered for doing it. Consort status would be ideal, she determined. Although, how to be certain they didn’t snark themselves into a tiff without following them would be a challenge… Perhaps Balin could be recruited? He was watching bemusedly as well.

Her attention focused back to the present when she saw Elrond holding a sword.

Honestly, her first instinct was that Thorin had managed to outdo his base level of Insulting Prick and really go for the gold; maybe an insult to Elrond’s dead wife. Fortunately, she recognized the blade, and grabbed her wine glass to wait.

Elrond looked the blade over, “ _Thisis_ Orcrist, _thegoblincleaver_.”

And fifteen heads turned to look at her.

Smug.

That’s the only word for how she smiled back at them before toasting with her wine. Then, and it was entirely the wine’s fault, she pointed to Gandalf and said, “Glamdring.”

And fifteen heads spun to look at Elrond again. She didn’t notice the elves turning to look at her. The sword was drawn and examined and Elrond confirmed her announcement.

Very Smug. And a bit tipsy.

“I told you so.”

Lindir’s belated half strangled noise turned her back to him. “ _Myapologieslady_. _Weweretoldyoudidnotspeak_. ”

“I feel like you’re expecting some kind of answer.” She said helplessly. So much for playing mute.

“ _Whatisyournamelady_?”

“Uh...what?”

“ _Shedoesn’tspeakcommonmlord_.” Bilbo said as he crossed the room amidst protest from the rest of the company. “ _Oranyotherlanguagewecouldrecognize_.”

Nice as it was to have Bilbo smiling and chatting amiably with the elf, she was still miffed by the reminder that she didn’t have a damn clue what was being said about her.

“ _Andyoutriedtheoldtongues_? _Andthesouthrontongue_?” The blonde elf asked.

“ _Indeedwedid_. _Ihadhopedlord_ Elrond _mightrecognizeit_. _Itseemshedoesnot_.”

“Nothisnotsomethingwehaveheard.”

“ _Howdidsheknowthenameofthebladethen_?” Lindir added.

“ _Ahwell_ …” Bilbo hesitated, “ _Sheseemstoknownames_.”

They were all three staring at her now, but at least the rest of the company had drifted back into their antics. She glared half-heartedly, then noticed that Thorin was watching Bilbo’s back with his usual dour glare.

“What? What’s going on now? Bilbo, you better not have made them hate me. I like it here. Rivendell is lovely. Please dont ruin this for me. Lindir, please let me stay here in the land of bathrooms and beds and tasty wine.”

And now they were all astounded by something.

“ _Youhadnttoldheryournameyethadyou_?”

“ _NoIhadnot_.”

“ _Shedidthistoallofustoo_. _Sheshowedupandlistednamesandrelativesandlineages_. _Youare_ Lindir, _correct_?”

Lindir nodded. “ _Andhername_?”

Bilbo frowned “ _Ohuh….hername...thatseemstobe--justgivemeaminutetorecall...thatis.._.” He turned back to the other dwarves, “ _Idontseemtorememberhername_.”

“ _Magajjuna_.”

“ _Lukhalukh_.”

“ _Annoyinglitt_ \--”

“ _Yesthankyou_. _Imeantherrealname_.”

There was a moment of long uncomfortable silence.

“ _Hasanyoneeveraskedhername_?”

Very strange. Whatever they were discussing had all of the company, even Gandalf, squirming uncomfortably while the elves glared in disapproval. She ignored the need to yell at someone. She did want the elves to like her when the dwarves wandered off to the mountains to make bad decisions, and get nearly eaten several times over.  Bilbo turned back, looking contrite, with a faint blush on his cheeks. He blushed prettily. She glared.

Then, for some reason -- it must have been the wine -- her mind jumped to a flash of memory from one of the smuttier fanfics she had read, rendered almost as clearly as if she had lived it.

_\---Bilbo’s pretty blush rose higher, tinting his ears bright red as Thorin growled and slid his hand deeper into the hobbit’s trousers with every intention of seeing how far that blush would travel south before---_

She shook her head sharply to dispel it and consciously set aside the wine in favor of water and more bread. She downed the water and looked back to the elves and the Company bickering about...something.

She needed to focus.

Instead it happened again.

_\---His rough hands were at her hips, holding her in his lap with a grip that couldn’t be fought. She ground down against him with a moan that was quickly echoed in the ranger’s throat. Sliding fingers slowly down to find the thighs exposed by her dress rucked between them, he gathered the edge and began pulling higher, exposing skin to the cool night air. A little whimper fell as dress and hands brushed past her breasts and---_

She coughed hard enough that the blonde elf refilled her goblet.

That was...unique.

But Bilbo was looking at her apologetically. And the elves were, to a one, still glaring at the Company. Wondering what she missed while her mind was randomly digging through the porn archives at the back of her brain and reenacting them, she gestured in general query at her new favorite elf. Lindir nodded, but spoke to Bilbo first.

“ _Youneverthoughttask_? _Andthenspokeofherillmanners_? _Ladymynameis_ Lindir,” he placed a hand against his chest, then gestured elegantly at the hobbit, “Bilbo.” He gestured to the blonde elf, “Glorfindel.” Then very deliberately, he gestured to her and waited.

And she was silent. Partially because a huge portion of her brain was devoted to staring at Glorfindel. Because she only knew of one elf named Glorfindel. That meant he was Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer. Glorfindel the Suddenly Obscenely Attractive. He who got cut from the movies for being too much a bamf. He who was probably sitting by her as a severely over-skilled guard. He who was faintly smirking which meant she must be gaping.

Crap.

Right, looking away.

But infatuation with the heroic elf of myth and legend was only part of why she hadn’t answered.

Obviously they were asking for her name. About time too since the mannerless nitwits had never bothered. But she absolutely could not give them her real name. One of the first things she learned while looking through Khuzdul was that her real name sounded remarkably like a particular word.

Something she’d rather not have them call her.

She had long since given up on pleasantly Mary Sueing her way through this hell, but running around being called the khuzdul word for ‘vagina-like’ was a step too far.

Yes, it was a polite, formal, nearly medical term, but still. Her real name was out of the question.

There was a line. Dammit.

But she also couldn’t just stare blankly at the elves while she thought of one.

Her stupid rebellious mouth was happy to fill in the silence.

“Freya.”

And while Lindir smiled politely and started what was likely a very formal set of introductions and apologies, her brain screamed at her mouth.

Because why why WHY had that just fallen out? That name that she had insisted on using on everything in middle school when it wasn’t cool to use her real name. When she was obsessed with mythology. How had her middle school self just taken over? Carol would have been better. Though, at least her useless rebellious mouth had grabbed something with a Norse root rather than say, Thai. But why had she said a name with the same base as Thorin’s dead brother? He was probably going to notice that. But, he couldn’t take offense to a similarity in names. Surely he-- no, no he was scowling, apparently he could take offense.

Excellent.

Great.

Good call mouth.

And there was no way to undo it.

So she smiled.

Apparently, her name was now Freya.

Could have been worse.

 

* * *

 

“Nadadith, I get it if you’re confused since Dori’s just said that as a question, but I’m not asking. Get your pack together. Now. We’re chattin’ with Balin soon as we can grab him. We’re cancelin' out our contracts and departin’ at first light. We’ll stop back at that troll cave to get the gold buried there, and then we are going home.”

Ori said nothing. He just turned the page and continued writing notes on the past few days. “It was Bill, Tom and….Bert, wasn’t it?” Nori and Dori didn’t answer. “Yes, I remember now. Bert was the biggish one.”

“Ori.”

He persevered in his feigned deafness. He wanted to be asleep after the misery of the last days, but knew that his brothers would just haul him up if he tried. So since he was up, he thought he could at least put the time to use.

“And it was Kili who first concurred about the parasites yes?” He asked in place of acknowledging their conversation.

“We aren’t asking, Ori. You’re coming with us before we all get dead on this fool quest. We aren’t just going to leave you here. Amad’d never forgive us.”

Ori finished the line and set down his quill.

His brothers were nothing if not pig-headed, and he had enough experience with their obstinacy to know that anything less than a shovel to the back of the head was unlikely to change their minds. He lamented his lack of shovel for a second. Then looked up.

“You can’t cancel your contract.”

“Binarnak targithul burg. Do you want to die for some fool mountain you’ve never even seen?” Nori snapped.

“No, brother, I don’t want to die, no one--”

“I saw you with the orcs. You’re not a fighter Ori. You’re a scribe. You’re gonna get killed.”

Ori swallowed, trying to look immovable. That... hadn’t been his best moment. He had fought wolves and bears before and once a small group of dwarven raiders, and had always been accurate with his sling, though rarely useful. The wargs… the orcs… had been terrifying. No point denying that. He should have done better. He needed to do better in the future. But the Company had survived. And if Mahal was going to see them through one hopeless situation, then he would continue to hope for success.

He finally spoke, “That’s not the point. You can’t cancel your contract.”

“Durinul brugn’abban I can’t!" 

“You can’t cancel your contract without incurring a penalty, and not just what Balin, Dwalin and the King will do to you two if you try. I know, brothers, I helped Balin to write that section.” That was a lie. Or, maybe it would be better to say, he did help write it, but the ‘Troll Incident,’ as he was calling it in his notes, fit the requirements of the clause beautifully.

Any member of the company was entitled to walk away without argument.

Not that Ori intended to tell them that. If they were too stupid to have read the full terms, that was their own fault.

“Do what you want brothers, but I am not going to betray them.” Yes, that was the word to use with Dori. His eldest brother snapped his mouth closed with a click. “And Nori, just sneak off if you decide to go, they’ll be able to fill in what happened if you go missing. It’ll be obvious since they know your history. That way you can avoid admitting you’re abandoning them.”

That was Nori taken care of.

Both were watching like he had turned into a two headed elf. Dwalin was right, Ori did need to stand up for himself more often.

That was the boldest he’d ever felt.

It felt good.

“I’ll see you in the morning. It’s been a busy few days.”

He snapped his book shut and strode from the room, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. It was a rush, talking like that to the brothers that had essentially raised him. Ori could count on one hand the times he had stood up to them about anything that mattered.

Refusing to eat leaves hardly counted.

All the same, he truly hoped they wouldn’t continue to argue, he didn’t know if he had the stones to repeat that performance in the near future.   

  
  


* * *

  


Bilbo flapped his hand in exasperation at the King, and answered the same question for the third time.

“Yes of course I said something Thorin, you don’t speak Sindarin, and it was completely inappropriate of him to insult you when you are a guest here.”

“But why?”

“Garden Goddess give me patience. Thorin. As I have told you, I said something because I wanted to. If it had been a comment about Balin or Bofur I would have done the same. I would have done the same for any of the Company.”

Bilbo’s nose twitched and he shook his head. Thorin was still looking him queerly. Like he had not seen the hobbit before. It was a look he received at least once every few days. The King’s initial opinion of him must have been deep below the ground for Bilbo to still be counted as a surprise.  

“You still think I’m not a real member of this Company, is that it? You still think of me as a green grocer and whatever else you saw when you met me. Thanks for that, next time a troll is about to eat one of them, I’ll just let be then, how’s that?”

At least he looked properly abashed. He stared over Bilbo’s shoulder trying to seem majestic in the moonlight, and failing, Biblo noted with a smirk. He added another mental tally to his list.

Wonderful game, discomfiting a King. He hadn’t known he’d had it in him.

It wasn’t that he disrespected Thorin, quite the opposite. The others had told him stories as they travelled; Thorin had taken up the mantle of responsibility decades before it should have fallen on his shoulders, while his kin still considered him a youth. His actions were as admirable as any he had ever heard. However, he had not had an inch, not one corner of his life to call his own. Bilbo blamed that for why he seemed to be permanently wearing a pair of burr-lined underthings.

The tension in him was so deeply ingrained that the hobbit had no idea what the king would look like if it ever broke. He wanted to know. Tooks were always the most curious of hobbits.

But he respected the dwarf deeply for what he had done.

Even if the hobbit could not resist the temptation of prodding at him. His facade of majestic indifference worked on the rest of the company, even seemed to work on the elves for the most part. Bilbo however, had employed a similar trick for years when dealing with his least pleasant relatives, and saw through it the very first time it wavered, all the way back in Bree.   

Also, when Bilbo was willing to examine it, he knew there was something else.

Something about Thorin Oakenshield seemed to provoke every last one of Bilbo’s Tookish impulses. And somewhere between the moment Thorin had grabbed his arm outside the troll’s cave, and when they crossed the bridge into Rivendell, there had been a shift. Nothing world changing, no, something dreadfully subtle. Too subtle for Bilbo to have identified it as of yet.

It was however, addictive.

Neither had slept in two days. By rights they should have been as thoroughly unconscious as the rest of the Company, as the rest of residents of Rivendell. But that twist had happened. And now neither was inclined to retire to their beds and rest. At least not to their own--

No, no. No.

He wasn’t sure of that just yet. Inappropriate to presume.

That change between them was the reason Thorin had grabbed the hobbit by the arm again, and dragged him to the balcony. The formal pretense had been to discuss his reasoning during dinner. Bilbo had dismissed that as a lie before it was fully spoken.

Unfortunately, Thorin had been a bit fixated in the conversation thus far.

As he finally surmounted his chagrin, Thorin managed to speak, “You - you are not a dwarf.”

“Very observant of you.”

“I mean that you owe no allegiance to our kind.”

“You mean I owe no allegiance to you.”

“I have said what I meant Mister Baggins.”

Bilbo smirked, “No you didn’t.”

“You presume to know what I mean better than I know myself?”

“No, of course not. But that wasn’t what you meant to say.”

He had gotten faster at cracking that facade. Or maybe it was just getting weaker. Either way, it was a lot easier now for Bilbo to provoke the King now than it had been in Bree. And he was rewarded with a soft furrowing of the brow and an odd tightness around the mouth. Maybe he would finally manage to evoke a smile tonight. Maybe, if he tried very very hard, and was very very lucky he might manage to get a response he could categorically declare to be flirting.

The hobbit couldn’t keep blindly flirting with someone who was possibly unaware and uninterested.

He needed confirmation.

“Are you intentionally trying to provoke me, Mister Baggins?”

“Yes.”

“Most would say provoking me is not wise.”

“Cowards.” he scoffed jokingly, “Now, provoking a dragon, burgling it? That is not wise. In fact, it’s likely to get me eaten right up.”

“I - that’s - this is hardly the subject of this conversation. We are discussing your actions this evening in relation to your sentiment toward the Elves of Rivendell and what further impact their negative opinions of our Company might have to encourage them to forestall and obfuscate our quest.”

It took every ounce of Baggins control not to cackle at that loquacious attempt to reclaim control of the conversational tide.

“Well, I’m sorry Master Oakenshield, if that is all you wish to discuss, it will have to wait until morning. _After_ breakfast. _Second breakfast_ , that is. I’m simply not interested in discussing so dry and tedious a subject so late at night.” He nodded a facsimile of a bow and began to depart.  Thorin caught him by the coat, as expected. Bilbo glanced from his sleeve to Thorin’s eyes, “Was there something else before we’re off to bed?”

He clipped the last word out precisely.

The Took was getting out of hand. Sleep deprivation. He wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise.

The Baggins dearly wanted to amend that statement, but was far too preoccupied watching a faint trace of pink rising above a dark beard to stop the Took from continuing.

“I expect you’re also thinking of putting a bed to good use.”

And the blush grew brighter.

How encouraging.

Wonderful game. Truly.

And the next move was to depart again.

Maybe, if Mister Bilbo Baggins had been born Mister Bilbo Took he wouldn’t have squeaked like a caught mouse when the coiled spring that was Thorin Oakenshield finally loosed. No matter, because it became obvious rather quickly that there was no objection to his startled exclamation. Instead there was a faint grin just starting to curl up the corners of his mouth.

More of a grin than Bilbo had ever managed to see before. It was charming.

All the dwarf had done, really, was pull the hobbit slightly. Just a tightening of his grip and what was, to him, a minute exertion.

It resulted in Bilbo falling. A bit. Into Thorin.

It may well have been a happy accident.  

Or It may have been a calculated action.

The hobbit hung for a moment, held up by the dwarf’s stronger arms, with his toes skimming the top of sturdy boots. Thorin had pulled him close, saving him, holding him tight against a chest so well muscled that Bilbo felt a bit self conscious at how his own must feel.

Then they waited. He was well aware his jaw had dropped somewhere in all that falling business, and was refusing to close back up, very much preferring to gawp at the painfully bright eyes that held his own in thrall. The Baggins was bewildered. The Took had fled.

And it only got worse a moment later when he found himself quite thoroughly kissed.

It was brief. And angry.

The snapping of a line that closes a trap.  

It was sharp and harsh and desperate. It was a promise and a possession. It set off a tumult of fireworks behind his eyes and stole the breath from his lungs.

And it ended far too soon.

It cut off as fast as it began.

They fell apart gasping, bare seconds after Bilbo had turned to leave. Thorin backed himself stiffly against a carved post, and Bilbo slumped on the railing behind him. It had been anything but unwelcome. Mostly it had just been so damned sudden that the dumbstruck hobbit had not even had time to respond to the… the plundering that had just occurred.

“Oh dear.”

“Lagb’uzurkai Zantulbasn’ulusdai.”

“Tho-  _Master Oakenshield_ , what in all Arda -”

“Good evening Master Halfling. Baggins. Burglar.”

And Thorin was gone, sweeping back indoors in a fit of majestic pique and leaving a gaping hobbit to try and make sense of what in the name of the makers had just occurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this, but I kept writing lovely things for everything except chapter four (I'm trying to keep a buffer - we'll see how long that lasts) So, good news, huge chunks of 5 and 7 are done already. Thank you for reading and enjoying my brand of crazy!
> 
> Khuzdul:  
> Magajjuna : Follower  
> Lukhalukh : Fool  
> nadadith : Little brother  
> Binarnak targithul burg : thoughtless baby bearded brat  
> Durinul brugn’abban : Durin’s hairy stones  
> Lagb’uzurkai Zantulbasn’ulusdai : sharp tongued, preposterous hobbit


	4. Good Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which communicating is hard to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations on hover and at the end.

The chamber where the company took their meal was a boisterous place as they pulled dried meat from their pockets to add to the otherwise vegetarian fare. Bilbo was not going to object to the fresh bread and fruit that the elves had provided, nor was he going to turn down an extra helping in the form of surreptitious pork.  

It wasn’t enough to fill his permanently grumbling belly, but it was more than they usually ate, and he was pleased. Until, at least, Thorin stalked into the room trailing stormclouds and grumbling in khuzdul.

He wished, not for the first time, that Hobbits had a secret language so he could grumble and insult his companions as he was certain they so often did around him. Then he recalled the event that had prompted the conversation that had resulted in the foul mood currently stalking to the opposite end of the table.

He smirked.

Hobbits in general might not, but this one did.

Thus Bilbo began swearing in Sindarin.

Which he refused to translate for an inquisitive Ori.

It was infantile of him, he knew. But it improved his mood to the point that he could look at the dwarf without wanting to throw the platter of pears at his stupid face.

Really, it wasn’t so much to expect an explanation of a stolen, impassioned kiss.  Instead, he had been left dazed and aroused on the damn balcony. Where it was chilly. And exposed. And solitary. Now, it seemed that the confusticating dwarf was going to ignore him.

While Bilbo had taken not one, not two, but three full breakfasts this morning in an effort to calm his nerves and make up for all those he had missed on the road, Thorin seemed to be abstaining from any food made by elvish hands.

Arrogant be-bothered sod.

Now he wasn’t even making eye contact when just the night before he--

Bilbo shouldn’t have thought about it again. He had to restart the elvish insults.

Ori was so very confused.

And there wasn’t even anyone to talk to about this great bloody mess. The rest of the company, he was quite certain, maintained a betting pool on the subject. He was disinclined to let it become public knowledge. Especially if the miserable cow of a king was going to revert to treatment Bilbo had not endured since Bree.

Perhaps Lord Elrond could give him some advice on proper punishment against behavior like this amongst dwarves.

For now, Bilbo glared.

He glowered.

He scowled.

And he ignored as the others speculated.

Bofur’s ineffable good cheer eventually drew him into conversation. Mostly it was about their hosts and whether Bilbo had overheard anything unseemly beyond the insult he had referenced. While he was absolutely on the side of the dwarves in this quest, he could not condone their behavior, specifically the table dancing that his favorite dwarf had demonstrated. So, Bilbo was gathering himself up to deliver a proper scolding and well and truly ruin Bofur’s mood when the gathering was interrupted.

By her.

Again.

Thorin’s face so dramatically transformed into petulant rage Bilbo could not help but laugh at it. If she - Freya - didn’t slap him today, the Hobbit was going to.

The brat.

Apparently, she was trying again. The genuine tone from before Radagast’s arrival had returned. Her hands were empty and spread before her in an obvious gesture of peace. She only got to speak for a few seconds before Thorin snapped.

He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the small side room. It muffled his voice, but not fully. Soon it was two voices shouting. After listening in awkward silence a few moments with the rest of the Company, it was Bilbo’s turn to lose his temper. Bofur, Dwalin and the princes tried to grab his arm as he crossed the room in a fury and barged into the conversation.

They had never seen what a Baggins past his patience was capable of doing.

“Confusticate the both of you. Sit Down!” He barked in his very best ‘give me back my prize-winning tomatoes Isengrim Took!’ voice. “Get in the chair Thorin.” He repeated with a second sharp gesture when the dwarf looked ready to rebel. Freya on the other hand had dropped promptly into a seat with a quirking grin and an approving gaze. Good behavior wouldn’t excuse her from the scolding she rightly deserved though.

“Are you incapable of having a conversation without yelling at someone, young lady? Without obscenity and violence? We’ve certainly seen no proof of it. Did your mother never bother to teach you manners? What would she think to see you behaving like this. And you!” He said, whirling on the now abashed dwarf, “Has it occurred to you for even a moment that if you would just listen to her for two minutes together she might stop bothering us? That if you let her convey whatever her message is it might be useful? Or at least allow us to understand what she has been doing this whole time? Clearly not, on both your parts, or I could still be enjoying my luncheon rather than mothering the two of you like a pair of Bracegirdle fauntlings.”

There was giggling behind him from the Company.

Of course they were eavesdropping.   

Well, were roles reversed, he would have too.

Instead he had two temporarily sheepish characters seated before him to reconnoiter and manage.

“Now. Freya, I know that you cannot simply tell us, but I am happy to help you to communicate -- no, you be quiet Thorin! -- to tell this idiot whatever it is you have been trying to say this whole time.”

She blinked rapidly at him, flicking her eyes between Bilbo and Thorin as if trying to decide who to address. Neither of them was looking particularly friendly. So, she spoke generally, to the room more than to either of them.

“Thorin. Bilbo. _Justletmeexplainpartofthis_. _Ineedyoutolistenjustforonefuckingminuteok_? Me? Erebor. Me Erebor. _Itsimportant_. _Icantfigureouthowtoexplainallofthis_. _EverythingIknow_. _Therestoomuch_. _Andsotheonlyoptionisformetocometoo_.” Her voice was low and fervent. “ _Ireallyhopethisisthrerightword_. Me. Erebor. Please. Thorin. Please.”

Bilbo started at that. She must have picked up the pleasantry from the elves.

She’d never heard it from the dwarves.

It was a great enough shift from her normal tirades that even Thorin restrained the obvious impulse to yell at her. So Bilbo allowed him to speak.

“Lukhalukh, we cannot allow you to journey to Erebor. But you seem to have some purpose in following us. What is it?”

“She’s not going to understand that. Also, don’t be insulting.” Bilbo interjected quickly. “Freya. You… follow… why?” He asked using the broadest, simplest gestures he could. Her frown intensified.

“ _IdontthinkIcanexplainmyselfproperly_. _Canwejusttaketimeformetolearnabitoflanguage_? _Justalittetime_. _Justafewdays_? _Illtrytokeepyouawayfromthegoblinsifyouleftmecome_. _ThatwoulddodgeyoumeetingAzzz_ \--- _thepaleorc_. _Thoughwewouldneedtofetchthering_.”

Bilbo’s turn to frown. Time for more gesturing. “You. Erebor. Why? You. Follow. Why?”

“ _Wowyoumustbegreatatcharades_ Bilbo. _IthinkIunderstoodit_.” She muttered as she pulled a packet of paper out of a pocket. “Ok. _Okpleasepleaseplease_ Please _donttakethisoneasathreat_.” Carefully, she unfolded a sheet and slid it across the table to the cautiously optimistic pair.

This was, after all, the first time she had shown even the slightest indication that she understood them. Bilbo was thrilled. Maybe he could sit down to work out the fundamentals of language with her if she could keep her temper in check. Maybe he could enlist Bifur and supplement verbal language with some of his signs.

He was so hopeful.

Until he looked down.

The paper had a sketched, but accurate, version of the map Thorin so cherished. The runes were indicated not written, but the rest; the layout, the style, even the dragon marked in red over the mountain, were a match to the one that rested against the King’s chest.

In spite of the bared teeth and slight growl rumbling out of Thorin, she slid over a second piece of paper. This one had a similarly accurate sketch of the key Gandalf had revealed at Bag End upon it.

“ _Iknowaboutyourquest_. _Iknowabout_ Smaug. _Iknowwhatisgoingtohappen_. _Idontwantthelineof_ Durin _tofail_. Please. _Letmehelp_. _Letmecometo_ Erebor. _IswearIknowwhatscoming_.” She either wasn’t watching, or wasn’t heeding the seething rage that was boiling off the dwarf in waves.

She slid over a third. Bilbo did not recognize it, but she pointed to the runes drawn within an oval, and said “Kíli.”

Stupid of her.

Bilbo did not understand the full connection, but even he knew that had been a damn foolish thing to say. Never include the sister-sons. That would be the first thing he taught her if he ever got to speak to her again.

Never even mention them.

In her case, try not to look directly at them either.

Without outright trying to kill his nephews, she could not have made Thorin distrust her any faster.

There was no chance of diverting the fight that exploded between them.

Thorin’s enraged shouts and her incredulous shrieking drew the dwarves to the door to peek in on the disturbance.

“ _Justforfuckssakelistentome_. _Youthunderingtwatwaffle_. _Justlisten_.”

“Should you come near our Company again we will have no choice but to permanently dispatch you, inbarathrag’binarkrâg.” 

“ _Iknowthefutureyounumbnuttedtwerp_. _Letmehelpyou_.”

“Bintansikhiya-ê rukhs’ulbab mamural. Unless you would prefer to be dispatched now.” Thorin had his knife out again.

“ _Giveitarestyouprick_. _Ifyouweregoingtokillmeyouwouldhavealready_! _Youhavent_! _Youarentsuchafuckingcoward_. _Youwouldntwaitifyouweregoingtokillme._ ”

“Thorin. Freya. Would the two of you--”

“ _Fuckoff_ Bilbo!”

“I-khizi, halfling!” 

Bilbo didn’t need to know exactly what they meant. He was stunned enough to stay quiet. And he was irritated enough not to care when angry tears fell down her face. He was utterly frozen when she pulled a knife from Maker-knows-where and the two started to screaming over top of each other. None of the watchers moved. It was obvious who would win if it came to violence instead of threats.

It wasn’t her. Shockingly.

“--Come close to my nephews or my Company again--”

“-- _sweartoGodIwillletyoudieyoujackass_ \--”

“--the suffering that will be exacted binizrên naragazsubj--” 

“-- _save_ Azog _thetroubleofhuntingyouandjusttieyouto_ \--”

“--even if we have to bargain with the mibilkhagas--”

“-- _insufferableclosemindedcocksuckingsonofawhore_ \--”

At some point, one of the more reasonable dwarves must have run to alert their hosts.

Lindir, Glorfindel and Dwalin rushed the pair simultaneously to avert the elves scrubbing blood stains out of the mosaic floor that afternoon.  Dwalin put himself in front of his king without touching him; a stalwart force to temper his king’s fury and prevent a murder.

The elves wasted no time with such politesse and simply lifted her from the ground to remove her. She went silent, scowling and red faced while she was hauled away. Both rooms were still and sharply quiet.

No one had managed to speak yet, but they could hear a commotion in the hall.

A few seconds later she reappeared, defiantly striding into the room, having slipped from the hold of her jailers.

“Me. Erebor.” And with her oft-repeated declaration re-avowed, she permitted the Elves to remove her again.

The silence that fell after was oppressive.

“No member of this company,” Thorin proclaimed to the group after a tense minute, “No one is to speak to her. No one is to assist her. Do not even allow her in your presence. If the elves are unable to keep her here and if she follows us again she will be treated as naragazsubj. Fili. Kili. Itritî.” 

And he stomped out of the room.

Bilbo glanced at the stunned princes. At a furious Dwalin. At a slack-jawed Balin. At a dumbstruck Company.

"Right."

And followed after the king.

***

“What was that?” He said coolly by way of greeting when he found the king brooding in a private room.

“I don’t explain myself to you halfling.”

“Today you will.” Thorin turned, outraged, “No, today you will. Choose an event and explain it. Either tell me what in Eru’s name you think that lass just said to justify your response, or what in all Arda you meant last night. Which one would you like to discuss, hmm?”

That, at least, was enough to give him pause.

“She threatened my kin.”

“It was a piece of paper. She showed a few pieces of paper and she said Kili’s name. It was hardly a death threat. She was trying to talk to you before you started yelling. She was _trying_. For the first time she was trying. And you started a fight. And we still don’t know what she meant by it.”

“If she is more than a spy and a whore of the enemy than I--”

“You don’t know that.”

“How else does she know of the map and the key? Of who the Company is?”

“She could have dreams - or - or - visions.” It sounded exactly as ridiculous as he feared it would.

Thorin stared until Bilbo wilted under it. Then he spoke.

“Why do you argue for her?”

Bilbo bit back the automatic sass. As much as he wanted to banter with, or yell at, the dwarf, it was not the time.  

So he answered honestly. “Because I do not want to see you die, Thorin.” He swallowed, careful not to let honest turn into heartfelt. “I...yes….also. Because she keeps saying Azog. And if he lives, he will try to kill you. So I want to know whatever she can tell us, in case it might prove useful. Because, I do not want you to die.”

It was time to be fascinated by the utterly uninteresting bedlinens. He could almost hear the dwarf processing what he had heard.  Unfortunately the Took was still hiding in the root cellar after the kissing. Mister Baggins looked up, and began to prevaricate.

“That is...I would not want to see anyone die. As you have said, I’m hardly a warrior, and I would find myself upset by seeing any of the company--truly, any good sort of person-- dying. Even the elves to be frank. I’m hardly as accustomed to such events as yourself or Dwalin--ah - uh - not that I meant to reference those that you have lost. For I understand that you have experienced -- Ah. Right. I’ll just. Yes.” He trailed off to an uncomfortable stillness. Nose tweaking without his input, he nodded several times while plotting an escape from the too small room and the presence of the dwarf who was now in control of the aforementioned room.

His Took courage had chosen the worst of all times to abandon him.

The King had taken a step and effectively cut off the path back to the door.

“Is that what you meant to say?”

Bilbo’s head snapped up to look at the tiny little smirk that was taunting him with that question. Just the goad he needed.

“No. It isn’t.” He raised his chin and pressed into the dwarf’s space a bit, “I meant to say that if you refuse to listen to her when she may know something? When she could help you reclaim your home? Then you are too great a fool to waste my time on, Thorin Oakenshield.”

His expression became pinched as he forced himself not to look away.

Eventually, finally, after what felt like a few years of razor sharp eye contact and a tension in the air Bilbo was certain even the dragon could not top, Thorin finally spoke.

“I cannot trust her. As you have noted, I am familiar with loss. I will not endanger Fili and Kili.” It was not as final as his previous pronouncement though, and Bilbo knew better than to push at that moment. There would be further opportunity.

Unless Lord Elrond was willing to lock Freya in a cell -- if Rivendell even had cells -- until the Company reached the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo knew it would only be a question of how long it would take her to catch them up. She hadn’t been dissuaded by everything that had already been thrown at her. One more threat would matter little.

His silence was rewarded in the end when Thorin spoke in a haltingly imperious tone.

“As to the other matter of which you requested additional explanation.” He couldn’t help it. His eyes lit up and a little coal of interest flared bright and low in stomach. Nor could he help his nose twitching once more. “It was an unfortunate miscalculation on my part. I apologize and can solemnly promise you that nothing of the kind will happen again. My actions were indecent and unwanted. Your disinterest was clear.”

The teasing curl of arousal that had started to build flipped on itself as the words hit him, and Bilbo felt sick. And confused.

Clearly at least one of them was confused.

He watched the mask of studied indifference settle into place, hiding the smirk he had just been cherishing.

And that was not to be borne.

He opened his mouth to disabuse the dratted dwarf from his beliefs, but wasn’t fast enough.

For the second time in less than a day, Thorin vanished, and Bilbo was left slack-jawed in shock.

 

* * *

 

 

Bifur could sympathise with the young thing’s anger. He at least understood what was said to him, and he had both iglishmek and khuzdul to speak to others. Few beyond his kin understood him, but he at least had some who could. During trips into the towns of Men, Bifur always found himself in a terrible mood by the end of the day. Miming and gesticulating and faffing about for half an hour just to sort out a delivery date always dug at him.  

She couldn’t understand. She couldn’t speak. And she obviously had something she was desperate to say.

He would be pretty angry too.

Bifur had better sense though.

He wasn’t going to go throwing flash-bangs near a blaze. Thorin was like enough to explode as it was, and Bifur had seen enough mining accidents to want nothing to do with that.

So he stalked.

The elves assumed, like almost every other person outside of kin and company that since he did not speak Common tongue, he could not understand it. But the axe in his skull wasn’t so simple. He still knew what was said, even understood the occasional word of elvish -- which was why he had snickered at the burglar during lunch. Since no one thought he could understand them, they tended to keep talking in front of him long past the point when they would have otherwise stopped.

It made eavesdropping much easier.

He sat on a fragile bench in a flowery garden and listened in on the conversation between the lass and her captors.

“ _Nonono. Stopit. Stopteachingmenicitiesandconjugation. Ineedtotellthemaboutthebattle. Aboutthespiders. Abouttheorcsandthegoblins_.”

“Please lady, we understand your frustration, but Lord Elrond has requested we assist you in learning. I. You. Him. We.”

“ _Theresmoreimportantthings. Ineednounsandverbs. Fuckinghellfine._ I. You. Him. We.”

“That was very good. Now, I am. You are. He is. We are.”

“ _Ohcomeonmybrainisdoingrandomcrapasitis. Ivegotpornhappeningattheleastconvenienttimes._ Please. _Justteachmeusefulwords_.”

“I am Lindir. You are Freya. He is Glorfindel.”

“ _Noconjugations. IdontcareifIsoundlikeTarzan. Ineedtoexplainwhatscoming. About_ Erebor.”

There was a long silence when Bifur assumed she was either fuming or pouting.

“ _Uggggghhh_. _Stupidpornbrainthingy_. _Imgoingtohavetohateyoutoo_. I am Freya. You are Lindy. He is Glory. _Nowcanwepleasetalkabout_ Erebor?”

As casually as he could, which was very incidentally, Bifur shifted so he could watch them.  She was indicating a group walking, and another figure walking behind. That’d be herself following the company. And then peaked hands…. mountains? No. Just one. The Lonely Mountain.

“ _TheLonelymountain_. Erebor.” She set an imaginary something on her head. “Thorin. Thror. Thranduil. Girion. Isildur. _F_ _uckthatsallthekingsIknowof_. _Everyoneelseisfiftyyearsaway_. _ohwaitno_. Thorin. Thror. Dain. Thranduil. Girion. Isildur.” With each name she gestured again, setting the same imaginary thing on her head.

Oh. Those stupid elves.

“Lady my apologies but I don’t take your meaning.”

“Uzbâd.” Bifur muttered, “Dai tagallibiya uzbâd, fundalukh.” The trio didn’t even glance in his direction.

He watched as she went through it all again, grumbling as she did. Then she cut off, pitching forward and looking glazed while her jaw slackened. After a few seconds she shook her head furiously.

The elves hardly noticed.

“ _Stupidfuckingrandomporn_ ….. _Lookjustlook_. Thror _wasking_. Thrain _wellheneverreallywasbecausehewentcrazyafter_ Azanulbizar. _Butthatsnotthepoint_. Thorin?” She shook her head and repeated the gestured crown. The elves were still puzzling it out, and getting nowhere.

She growled wordlessly and stood up, shaking out her hands and spinning in a circle. Then stopped dead when she saw Bifur. Somehow. She knew. She must have. Bifur had spent enough time learning to watch facial expressions to be confident in what he saw. The blaze of anger she had been stoking petered out. A tiny hopeful smile rose in its place.

Freya stared directly into his eyes as she tried once more.

“Thorin. Erebor?” She indicated a crown. Shook her head. “Dain. Erebor.”

The blonde elf set a hand on her shoulder and drew her away.

“Apologies Master dwarf. We understand she is not to speak to any of your party. Come m’lady.” The brunette said with a bow before following.

Bifur would have preferred to stay nearby and keep listening. He would have hid in a whole mess of flowers to learn a bit more, but they would be watching for him now. And he had learned something. Two somethings in fact.

She was willing to try.

And something was going to happen to Thorin.

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually Bilbo managed to chase the dratted dwarf down again. He looked like he’d been found by a pack of orcs rather than a hobbit.

That was a bit unnecessary. Bilbo knew he was in a terrible mood over this whole debacle, but it wasn’t as if he could actually intimidate the confounded dwarf-king. He should have tried to calm down before beginning to hunt the source of his frustration.

Thorin made a little mollifying gesture while he stood that did nothing to help.

Of course Bilbo was still grumpy. And of course he knew they ought to have a conversation. Even if the king would be hopeless at that part.

They really ought to have had the conversation first. Unless that was what the disaster of a dialogue this morning had meant to be? The dwarf might have been that misguided. Irrelevant. They were here now. Thorin was caught on this sheltered balcony and his only options were to talk to the hobbit or take his chances hurdling the railing.

Luckily, Thorin opted to stay.

Which is how Bilbo was able to close the distance with a few confident steps.

The air was humming between them. Absolutely humming, and if Thorin was oblivious to it, Bilbo would have to make it more apparent.

“You did not give me a chance to speak this morning.”

The mask of indifference fractured with that one sentence, and a more charitable voice prompted the hobbit to be kind. He could see the slight hesitation in the way the dwarf was looking at him. He could see that he expected a tirade and a rejection. He could also see that there was still a tiny shard of hope that Thorin was trying not to acknowledge.

He wasn’t going to let that chance slip. So long as the bothersome, brooding dwarf was there, was still in arm’s reach with a hint of hope for a happier outcome, Bilbo could take a chance.

Whatever this was between them, it crackled in the air like lightning, bright, fast and exactly as likely to ruin them both.

The glimpse of hope grew, and that was his cue.

This time it began with Bilbo half climbing the dwarf to account for the difference in height. Clinging to the fur coat and balancing on the very tips of his toes. It began with Thorin’s hands sliding to support him before his mind had a chance to question what was happening. It began with Bilbo holding them there, denying his own impulse, trusting that the moonlit kiss last night was more truthful than the formal apology this morning, and it began with a fierce whisper when their lips were so close they tingled.

“Do not presume you know my mind without asking me.”

Maybe Thorin thought that was a commentary on the previous evening at first since he recoiled from the hobbit. However, any reluctance or regret was rapidly discarded.  

Should any soul ever want to chart the extreme ends of experience within the category of romantic kisses, Bilbo would be happy to claim that he had known both. Their first kiss was bathed in moonlight and a plundering that left him aching for more as if a part of his gut had just been torn away. It had been cutting and wild. Mind-melting in its intensity but far too fast to savor.

This one.

Bilbo let the words settle into Thorin first. He let the mask crumble as the king understood. He waited until their noses brushed with Thorin’s inviting tilt of his head.

By the time he closed the distance, the space between their lips had been charged to unbearable levels. A first touch. A second. A gentle pressure and a faint tracing with his tongue. But dwarves are not known for their patience; they are known for their greed. Thorin’s arms tightened, clutching at the hobbit in what the smaller one suspected was disbelief.  

Bilbo let the kiss break fully open.

He tilted his head and sweetly claimed with every ounce of hobbity courage he had. Thorin was, after all, a king, and between the two of them, had far more right to want to avoid such an entanglement. Oh but there was a gravelly moan that Bilbo thought he could listen to forever. It curled his toes, and he would have fallen if Thorin’s arms were not already holding him entirely. Bilbo returned the favor of the plundering he had been subject to, trying to convey how incredibly wrong Thorin’s assessment had been.

This was not the proper way to go about it. Proper would involve scones and tea and, well, _words_. But this seemed to be getting the job done.

Thorin learned quickly how very interested Bilbo was, and the hobbit knew the precise moment when disbelief and doubt were discarded.

An already exhaustingly perfect kiss turned and changed; it opened. He had no other word for it. It just suddenly stopped being two of them kissing. It wasn’t two anymore. It was just them. What he found in the dull glow of bliss was a homecoming Bilbo did not even know he had longed for. It was…

It was more than he knew how to handle.

They broke apart.

Bilbo was pressed against a wall, legs wrapped around the king’s waist, hands tangled in dark hair and braids -- and when had that happened?  They were flushed and panting. when Bilbo shifted slightly and his thoroughly tented trousers ground into the the king’s, it became obvious they were both inclined to proceed.

But they couldn’t.

Shouldn’t, rather.

They certainly could.

No. Wanton blissful abandon was one thing, but they really did need to have a conversation; even a stilted, awkward and largely unhelpful conversation would serve.

“Th--Master Oakenshield, I suppose it’s my turn to apologize.”

“Don’t. Don’t. That is -- You should call me by my name.” Thorin’s eyes fell closed.

“Then I will, Thorin.” Bilbo intended to return to the very boring conversation, but was waylaid by the spark that shot down his spine when Thorin pressed tighter with his hips. It wasn’t his fault that his jaw dropped and a keening moan fell out.

Though it did prompt a tender, “Bilbo” to be breathed against his ear.

Oh, the Shire would be scandalized by what was left of his reputation. Particularly his willingness to cast the last of it aside and begin pulling at buttons and laces.

Thankfully for the gossip back home, they were interrupted by a bucket of ice water in the shape of Lord Elrond’s arched eyebrow and equanimous visage. He didn’t say a word. Just stood for a moment on a nearby balcony to cast aspersion on the scene until Bilbo clumsily slid his feet to the ground once more.

He blushed, and if he had been willing to look up, would have seen a similar shade on the king’s cheeks. He wasn’t though. So he mumbled something about tea times that made no sense as they didn’t keep a proper meal schedule. They were on a quest, of course there wasn’t proper tea time. He really wasn’t handling this as well as he had hoped to.

Then, to change things up, he fled, leaving the dwarf he had just -- that he would rather be -- that was -- he wanted ---

He fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would be lost without Mephestopheles and Lady Zephyr. I mean it. Those two keep throwing me back at my keyboard with their encouragement. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that has reviewed, I try to answer all of you, since you make me so happy, but it ought to be said again. Thank you so so much.  
> As this gets more vulgar/sexual/generally inappropriate, If I ever cross a line, and you think it needs a TW. please just let me know, I have a hard time guessing what needs to be marked. 
> 
> KHUZDUL:  
> Lukhalukh : Foolish one  
> inbarathrag’binarkrâg : Honorless Goat  
> Bintansikhiya-ê rukhs’ulbab mamural : do not tempt me orc-licking whore  
> I-khizi : Shut Up  
> binizrên naragazsubj : yielding Morgul spy  
> mibilkhagas : Tree fuckers  
> Uzbâd : Kings  
> Dai tagallibiya uzbâd, fundalukh. : She’s saying Kings elf-fools


	5. Bad Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which people do things they shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) and [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles)    
>  They're too wonderful for me to handle. Seriously.
> 
> This chapter ramps up the sexual content. If you think it needs to be Explicit not Mature, just let me know. Also, I updated the tags.

_\---It had been too long. Far too long. Even in the life of an elf, even with the promise of eternity to reaffirm affections and savor the sweet taste of skin and sweat, it had been too long. He fell into Gildor still sore from battle, still with a sheen of blood and dirt across him, still with the rush and terror of the field fresh in his mind, and uncaring of the consequence. For it had been too long since he had parted the smooth hills and sunk into the tight wet valley of his lover---_

Freya lifted her head off the table and dropped it back with a satisfying thunk.

“Stooooppppp iiiiiiiittttttt.”

The elves had tortured her for hours that morning with endless rounds of useless stupid conjugation. And through it all her brain was torturing her with this more and more. They had reached Rivendell four days earlier and this thing, whatever it was, had escalated every day.

The stray flash of porn was strange enough. Not entirely unwelcome to be honest after two months, but certainly strange that it kept floating up of its own accord.

At first there had been multi hour gaps before her subconscious wandered into a fit of erotica. That had been fine. She could derail that line of thinking fairly easily. Those gaps had shrunk to the point she had trouble focusing on the Elves long enough to play charades. Her brain was preoccupied with alternative tasks for hands.  When it got really bad she only had a few minutes, if that, to shake the various horizontal dancers out of her brain.

It was making her a little bit crazy.

It was making her a lot a bit horny.

_\---Bilbo cried out but his protests were swallowed down by Dwalin’s frantic mouth. He could hear the smirk as much as he felt it when the tattooed dwarf looked down the long arched line of Bilbo’s spine to where their king was buried hilt deep in his plush rounded arse. Blunt fingernails dragged over his scalp and drew his head lower to a second prize waiting, flush and aching, in Dwalin’s lap. The soft cushions beneath him weren’t friction enough, but at least they would keep him upright. His husbands were rarely inclined to rapid conclusion and the pillows would save him when his knees inevitably gave out. He whimpered around the head as Thorin finally, tortuously, languorously began to move---_

Freya whimpered a bit too, shifted in the chair, and definitely did not roll her hips into the press of the foot she had tucked beneath her.

“Oh come on stop that. Not the OT3. Fucking hell. Dwalin is way too scary to think about that. He’s a tank. Stop making me think about that. I’m going to blush next time I see any of them as it is, but seriously, can’t you stick to the lesser porn, brain?”

She wrapped the pilfered blanket further over her face and hid in a fuzzy cave, head on the table. This wasn’t her room, where she could hide in the bed and at least try to take care of herself. But this was the only way she was going to get away from her hosts. And by hosts, she did mean jailors.

After the first day, after she managed to say something important to Bifur who she thought possibly had understood her, she just hadn’t had the patience to really try for language with the elves. But Glory and Lindy - and didn’t they bristle adorably when she called them that - kept chasing her down and insisting.

It was miserable.

She had pressing business to attend to, but they would find her if she returned to her room.

She had spent more of the last two days crying than she wanted to admit. The only thing that kept her from giving up on saving them was the tattered thread of her original mantra, and a mile high pile of stubborn she had built living with her older brothers.

Thorin had reinforced his rules against talking to her. He must have.

They ducked out of any room she entered. Even Bilbo.

Nori had the decency to look a bit guilty as he did, and Bifur could occasionally be found near enough to overhear and watch; his presence had her trying to give monologues entirely in mime, but didn’t know if they were working. There was only so much flapping about she could do before the Elves tried to give her medicated teas.

_\---Rough hands and smooth ageless skin collided once more, evicting a gaspy moan as he counted. The silence in between strikes was taut with the blaze of fiery waiting as the elf tried to say silent and still beneath the controlling hands of his lover. Age and race aside, they were as dear to each other as any could hope to be. If others didn’t grasp the appeal of submitting to to Gimli it mattered not at all. Because once the control slipped they would fall into softer passions that went deeper and truer for their rough preface---_

That one left her coughing a bit. “Did I read that? Did I invent that?”

That was not really a ship she had sailed. It did not keep her from stopping, mouth caught in an O as she noticed a particularly shaped stone paper weight on the shelf.

“No. No. No. No.” She repeated in time with each knock of her head on the desk.This was unacceptable. There were lives on the line. The lives belonged to a group of jackasses, yes, but she was going to save them just for the pleasure of watching them have to thank her.

Unless she went crazy muddling through a pile of porn.

If it kept going like this she was going to try to get ahold of one of those teas. Maybe it could knock her out far enough to make this stop.

_\---the height difference never mattered once they fell into bed. There, as clothing was stripped by searching hands, nothing else would ever matter. The distraction of pressure and friction and hot wet yielding flesh was always too great a temptation to be bothered that the elf towered over him. Not that Kíli objected to spending most of his day eye level with the breasts he spent his evenings caressing and worshipping with hand and mouth and tongue---_

Not. Fair. The gaps were tiny today. It didn’t make sense.

Yeah, some of this was cherry picked from really great stories. But some of it was from the strangest things she had ever opened. Things she had just clicked on because they were a rare ship so why not. Things she had not rightly thought about after reading it the first time. It was all still in her head though.

She glanced back at the paperweight and idly thought about a similar object in her bedside table back in the real world. The way the day was going, she was considering trading all three Durin’s if she could get back to the real world and to that drawer.

_\---This time he was determined to last longer. This time he would not spend until he had taken the time to properly repay the favor. But then they both knelt over him and began to take him, swallowing down his length til there was naught left, and rising with slow fierce suction and allowing the other to take her turn. Tauriel and Sigrid tormented him with breaks as they kissed, thirsty for each other, and shared the task of stroking him til he ached and begged them to resume---_

“Maybe I can get Dwalin to punch me. Pretty sure I’d be out cold for a few hours.” She needed sleep. Real sleep, not what she was left with while this rolled onwards. This damnable descent into madness. It felt sort of like someone was digging through a folder, pulling things out, or going down a rabbit hole following links on wikipedia. Endlessly finding something similar or related, following that subject to another, opening each file to preview.

Someone was having a grand time exploring it all. Freya tossed her head, trying to focus before she was once again reduced to a mewling ball of pathetic aroused lady parts.

“Wait.”

It had taken longer than maybe it should have, but she was finally catching on. It felt exactly like someone was digging around. Someone else. It felt external. It had gotten worse in the last few days. Like someone getting either closer or stronger, maybe just more confident in what they were doing..

“Who the fuck? I mean, there’s been a lot of Bagginshield. And a lot of Kíli. But none of them could be responsible for this. And that might just be because I’ve read a lot of that. Who the fuck….”

She yanked the blanket tighter and curled on herself as another pulled her in to half watch and half relive it.   

_\---Anathema or not she could not help how she felt as her lover’s fingers thrust into her again. Harder and deeper with each stroke. She pleaded with her for more, always for more during their frenetic grappling. With her she could cast aside the studied calm of eternity and allow centuries of closely bridled want free to run under the tender crop of the only female Maiar---_

Freya forced that one down. Not her cup of tea. Gandalf and Galadriel? No thanks. Even if that had been a female Gandalf. Which was better, but still. Wrinkly Gandalf parts? No.

Instead of fading like they had before when something was enough of a squick to really motivate her, it repeated. She was too surprised to shove off a second time. But once it finally let go, and it took its sweet damn time getting there, she was furious.

“Oh frickety fuck.”

She half sprinted out of her hiding place, heading for her room, expecting to find Lindir or Glorfindel grumpily waiting to deliver a lecture and a language lesson. She wasn’t going to let that happen, but hopefully they were feeling predictable today. She needed one of them to bring her to Elrond. Almost anyone else she could hunt down in Rivendell, but Elrond was slippery, he was always able to vanish. So. Fine. She would recruit help.

Instead of finding her elf-guard, she crashed into Fíli and Kíli.

And her brain took it as a prompt.

_\---They hadn’t known before, not at first, not when the two of them broke over each other like cresting waves, unable to stop the pull between them. Stripped of their tunics the brothers---_

“Woaaaaahhh. Hey no. Stop. It’s a bit odd when it’s just actors but come on. Not. Ok. The boys are standing right in front of me.”

She knew it was impossible to blush to death. Her cheeks wanted to disprove that. Except she must have stumbled, since they had both grabbed an arm.

“Right in front of me.”

And that was not the best idea considering her mental state. There were even odds between her groping and kneeing them both in the balls.  Touching wasn’t good. Not at all. Especially not when they were looking honestly concerned. Nope. Not good. She was about half an inch from outright moaning which would do no good to anyone.

Deliberately, she straightened.

She pressed them both out of the way, and continued down the hall with her head held high and her face as impassive as it could be considering what she was thinking about. Which began with pondering how strong their grip had been and ended with her taking a careful catalog of every mark, scar and hair on each of them.

If they’d followed, she might not have maintained her control, and that knowledge reminded her why she was on the warpath.

Lindir was soon discovered and easily cowed. He brought her to an area of the house she had not seen before. Elrond seemed bemused behind his book to see his steward scurrying ahead of her like she might bite. She was considering that.

He was dressed too finely, had his circlet set on the table beside a tray of fruit and wine, and commanded the room with the power of several millennia of experience. She did not care at the moment. So the stood and scowled, waiting for him to look at her.

As soon as she had his attention, she slowly escalated to an explosion they probably heard in the valley below.

“Where the fuck is your mother-in-law Elrond? And what the fuck is wrong with the sex starved pervert? Because this is not ok. Not at all. I want her out of my damn head. Right now. Forever. I want her to fuck right off out of my brain and let me exist for ten _damn_ minutes without seeing porn! So where the _fuck_ is she Elrond? _Where the dizzy fuck is Galadriel_?”

 ****  


* * *

 

 

“So we only have until Durin’s Day? Is that enough time?” Bilbo asked the king from the absolute opposite side of the garden. The king nodded. “Good. That’s good. Then it’s fortunate you allowed Lord Elrond to see your map.”

It was Midsummer’s Eve. Lithe by Shire reckoning. And Bilbo absolutely was not thinking about the traditions associated with that feast. There wasn’t going to be any sneaking off into the woods tonight. No, tonight they were going to have a conversation like reasonable adults of two respectable races not just launch at each other like lusty tweens. There would be no weaving of flower crowns. No frolicking at dawn through dew soaked grass. None of the unimaginably tender kisses Thorin gave that made Bilbo shiver at the memory.

Serious conversations.

They had been trying to manage that for days now. Truly. They had repeatedly attempted to discuss the madness that seemed to descend on them when they got close. They set multiple appointments to discuss whatever this was. It had resulted, every time, in them breathless and rumpled, falling away from each other before they could cross a line they had not known they had drawn.

Then there were all of the instances of one of them grabbing the other and wrenching them somewhere private and utterly wrecking them before flitting away in victory while the other mewled pleas for more. It was a war with many skirmishes a day and both of them thought themselves the winner. Of course, fully half the time, instead of a tangle of tongues and limbs and moaned entreaties, it became a shouting match on dwarven stupidity and hobbit fragility.

Passion levels in the two types of rendezvous were dead even.

The Company had not noticed yet. Only a matter of time. Especially on the road. They wouldn’t be able to do this on the road. It would be obvious. They were having enough trouble here where they could hide behind a closed door. On the road, if they wandered far enough off to not be heard, Dwalin would probably send a search party. Even if they weren’t heard, when their flushed cheeks and rucked clothing were noticed, they couldn’t quite claim they’d been sparring with their swords. Well.

Earlier today, straddling the king on a table and grinding needy erections slowly together, kissing him deeper everytime he tried to get up, Bilbo had accepted that they shouldn’t continue thusly. And while the thought wasn’t enough to stop what he was doing -- Balin calling them to dinner handled that -- it had eaten at him the rest of the day. It had pestered him while Elrond studied the map. It had bothered him while he trailed the group on their way to the waterfall chamber where he had been too distracted by an example of Mahal’s craftsmanship to pay much attention to the exquisite space he was standing in.

Which is why Bilbo was on the opposite side of the garden. Why they were in a garden at all for that matter. It was public. They would have to behave. Though if he was honest, there was no telling what would happen if they got within arm’s reach.

Their little furlough was ending. Bilbo fully expected them to be on their way before another day had passed. Then it would be the road and camping and mountain climbing and Eru knows what new torments awaited them.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started again after looking up,  “Bilbo.” Then silenced himself, clearly rewriting his speech in his mind. The hobbit knew that look. It was going to be another round of self-recrimination and insistence that they behave properly in the future. This would make the fourth such speech. Every time, Bilbo had agreed. Every time, Thorin had been the one to crack and drag them into a dark corner to turn Bilbo into a quivering mess of boneless hobbit parts with that verbally incompetent mouth.

“You could have been nicer to Lord Elrond you know.” Bilbo interrupted cheekily, just to watch Thorin fight the curl of his lips. “He read the map for us. We wouldn’t have known we are on a timeline otherwise. We wouldn’t have known about Durin’s Day. And yet, you insisted on behaving like a petulant child.”

Moonlight was a very good look on Thorin Oakenshield.

“His disdain was plain to see, should I not respond in kind when our quest is being maligned?” And there was that infuriating half smirk.

“No you should exercise better manners.”

Thorin sighed, letting the trace of a smile dissipate. “This is not what we need to discuss at the present time. You are welcome to harangue my politesse once we continue our travels --”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bilbo smirked.

“--but we must discuss...this.”

“‘This’? How terribly eloquent. Very well, what is it about ‘this’ you would like to discuss, Thorin?”

“The intention of such proceedings is generally -- intentions are generally stated and discussed long before interactions such as we have indulged in have developed to the state that they have. We have had no conversations of the kind. My actions have been regretful.”

“I don’t regret them.”

“Nevertheless, by the rules of propriety, our interactions have been highly dishonorable. I must amend them when we depart. We should cease this.”  Bilbo bit his lip and paid no attention to what was said after.

After a particularly blissful encounter in a pantry, Thorin had started discarding his mask as soon as they were alone. Now it was coming back. He was retreating, hiding behind the security that being a pompous ass afforded him. And while the Company’s Burglar understood why the King would need to do so, Bilbo couldn’t stand seeing Thorin like that.

Not now that he had seen him so freely unguarded. Not when Thorin had been so close to breaking into a full and genuine smile in front of him for the first damn time. Not today. Because it was Lithe, because Bilbo knew that in the Shire, couples were wandering out in the fields with fireflies in the air, and flowers woven in their curls, softly whispering sweet things to each other and savoring the evening. Today was not a day for regret and propriety. Quite the opposite.

They weren’t in the woods. These weren’t wildflowers. But they were still under the moon, surrounded by flowers and the sweet smell of grass and good earth.

It was Lithe, and a very small part of Bilbo, one he had tried ever so hard not to listen to, had been buzzing at the thought of getting to celebrate it properly for the first time since he really was a tween and not just acting like one. That small part had been nearly humming with the prospect of a proper Midsummer with the irascible, incomparable dwarf.

Instead, Thorin seemed to be sounding a death knell for their nascent -- for whatever it was that they were.

Who would have thought that at the end of the day it would be the hobbit to be called improper? Hobbiton would be in an uproar to hear it.

“You must understand the impropriety of our continued behavior.”

Bilbo nodded and wished he had any say over what his nose did when he got upset. He nodded some more, continuously, as if doing so long enough would convince him that he actually agreed with what was being said. That he was ok with ending the indefinably perfect thing they were pursuing.

He couldn’t stop looking at the flowers around them. Fuschia and red phlox, soft blue towers of sage, bright white aster, the last of the seasons peonies enormous and peachy even in the dim light.  

“Have you ever seen a Lithe festival, Thorin?” Bilbo asked quietly, not really waiting for an answer anymore than Thorin was listening to him.

“Our behavior, should we follow through tradition would cause tremendous problems. Ones that I, as a leader of my people can ill afford to indulge in.”

“I don’t know what traditions are kept by dwarves on Midsummer’s Eve, none I expect, but in the Shire, Lithe is considered to be --” A lover’s festival, but he mustn’t say that, “--very important.” He bent and plucked one of the peonies. It wasn’t as if Thorin would understand the symbolism.

“Our traditions and heritage define us. It’s all that my people have left. Breaking those traditions is not possible for me.” Thorin was just going to keep talking apparently, even though Bilbo was now wandering about, looking over the asters for the perfect one. He got distracted by the patch of bright little butter flowers carpeting the ground between two paths and smiled at them.

“We wander in the woods and the fields all night, and we gather flowers and we have dances and feasts in the morning. It’s all very--” Romantic. No. Not wise to say that either. “--festive.”

“It is difficult to defy those expectations, no matter what otherwise may be desired.” Now why did Thorin sound so strained?

“We bring flowers to everyone you can claim a friendship with in the morning, but that night, and at dawn, you bring posies only to those that --” No, wasn’t going to say that either. “-- to better acquaintances.”

He plucked a few of the little yellow flowers individually. Thorin was silent now, waiting for an response to his somber pronouncements. The dwarf was standing where he had taken position on first entering the garden. He hadn’t moved so much as a step. Bilbo was completing his small circuit, hands filled with blooms.

“When revelers return they’re decked in flowers. Garlands and posies and baskets full of them. Lasses wear their hair in lovely braids and they weave them right in.” He walked in front of Thorin, ignoring his earlier concerns about their actions.

The mood had shifted while they had both talked without the other hearing. It was sedated. Serene. They had never been like this before, and Bilbo wasn’t going to break the spell that settled over them.

He reached up and tucked a single bloom from the phlox behind the king’s ear with a gentle smile. The bright pink stood out brilliantly against the dark waves, and his hand lingered, brushing gently over a braid as he removed it. Bilbo hadn’t really heard what all Thorin had been rambling on about in that awful officious tone after the word cease. It was avoidance of the worst kind, but he hadn’t liked where that conversation had been headed. He would deal with the repercussions of his feigned deafness later, when they weren’t in a glorious garden with the confounded dwarf standing there looking like something plucked from a child’s tale.

The king really was unfairly handsome.

The contrast of the geometric patterns of his coat, armor and beads against the delicate curves of the sprig of phlox was wonderful.

He shouldn’t do what he was considering. It wasn’t appropriate no matter how he framed it. But Thorin was looking at him with an honest, sparkling kindness in his eyes that was entirely new. It just slipped right past all the usual instincts to be contrary and antagonizing and made him want to pull the confounded dwarf close and breathe him in, deep and slow until there was nothing left of him he didn’t know better than he knew himself.

“Sit,” Bilbo asked as he knelt in the grass, “It won’t be Lithe for me if I don’t do this for someone.” That was a lie. Then, when Thorin didn’t move; “Would you rather I find someone else?”

That was enough. Thorin knelt, then sat, and, on his knees, the hobbit edged closer. Little sprigs of coralbells were slipped into the twin braids, the reddish stems barely visible, leaving the delicate white drops to seemingly float.

It wasn’t fair to have the king looking at him so openly, not when the Shireling was trying not to be obvious in what he was thinking.

Thorin lifted a braid by the bead, inspecting the additions circumspectly. When his hand went to remove one, Bilbo grabbed it to stop him. “You wouldn’t want to insult Shire tradition, would you? Besides, if you take it out, I’m just going to replace it. May as well do what I tell you from the start.”  

He did not expect that thornless retort to work, let alone provoke the response it did. Thorin pulled out a single sprig, and placed it carefully above the dazed hobbit’s ear. Confident fingers ran along the edge of said ear, down his jaw and paused under his chin. He could not help but allow the king to tilt his head into better light. And then -- Sweet Yavanna watch over her children -- Thorin finally smiled. Truly smiled. Not the little play that happened in the corner of his mouth when Bilbo was particularly witty. Not a wry smirk. Just a wide, blithe smile.

It was too much to take all at once, and Bilbo would have dissembled had his mouth been capable of more than hanging dumbly, lips parted, and half a declaration he would absolutely regret stuck on his tongue. So he found another coralbell and replaced the one Thorin had returned.

Then he looked at his lap full of flowers and made up his mind to listen to the Took that was enthusiastically promising that this would never be understood. He started quickly weaving the stems into each other. It was a peculiar skill, one he had not even thought about for nearly two decades, but he recalled the particulars of quickly enough. Peonies were tied around the switchgrass. He added the white violets in bursts and covered it over in bright phlox. He placed every single bit of coralbell he had, smiling to think of how appropriate that meaning was. It would have gone faster if he had not been distracted throughout by glancing up.

The smile had relaxed, but had not dimmed, and he was fighting to not drown in it. Hobbits were wary of drowning, but Bilbo thought that he would be perfectly content with that fate so long as -- he shook that aside and looked back down one last time, tucking stems out of sight, making sure everything was just as he wanted.

“Tra...tradition. You understand.” He rasped, raising to his knees again to set the flower crown on Thorin’s head. It was still so wonderfully incongruous. His heart could not help thundering in his chest. Wry looks were cast at the petals hanging into his face, but the king made no move to throw it aside and decry the whole thing.

Utterly scandalous. A dwarf. A king. Not a single proper conversation held on the subject. And they’d known each other for barely two months.

Still.

Finest Midsummer’s night he had ever had.

Even if it was a lie.

How had that smile grown brighter? How had he thought that this was a good idea?

“Tradition?” Thorin asked guilelessly. Not trusting his voice, Bilbo nodded. “Are there others? Traditions, that is?”

He wasn’t the only one whose voice was a bit rough. Though, since Thorin was unaware of what had just been said, of what the crown meant, of what those flowers meant, it hardly made sense for the dwarf to be feeling as flummoxed as the hobbit who had woven the damn thing.  

Bilbo nodded again. That was so much safer.

Thorin found one of the remaining bunches of violets, and began sliding the white blooms individually into the curls atop his head. Whether Thorin understood it or not, it was absolutely melting Bilbo. So when he asked again about other traditions, Bilbo leaned in, hands delicately cupping the king’s cheeks, and kissed him.

This was new.

Not the kissing. They had done plenty of that in the last few days.

But this was delicate and patient and plainly, undeniably special. Maybe because they weren’t frantically scrabbling at each other. Maybe because they were acutely aware that they could be found, and were not rushing to hide. This wasn’t another battle between them. This wasn’t fiery.

When it ended, Bilbo felt terribly exposed, vulnerable to the point that he could not meet Thorin’s eyes. He was a very foolish hobbit to have listened to a Took. He was worse for having daydreamed about this earlier.

A very silly hobbit. This wasn’t what the two of them did. They grappled in cupboards and pantries and were permanently on the border between lust and resentment.

His nose twitched while he looked at the flowers that had fallen on the ground, and he gathered the courage to glance up again. Thorin’s smile was broader, brighter. It could have outshone the moon. Every inch of Bilbo lit up at the sight.

“What I was speaking of previously,” Oh, well, that put a damper on the glow in his pounding heart, “All of it was, or perhaps it is better to say that most of it was... that is, would you object to pretending for a time I never said such things? Despite what would be proper, simply forget for a time. That I ever said anything about…”

“Ceasing this?”

Thorin nodded once even as his hands moved behind Bilbo’s neck and pulled them back together, stopping when their foreheads rested together.

“Could we possibly instead…”

“Continue?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

 ****  


* * *

 

Spying and eavesdropping were actions unbefitting the crown prince of the Line of Durin. He had heard that lecture plenty as a dwarfling. Instead of his mother’s, uncle’s, elder cousins’  and mentors’ tirades dissuading him from doing it, he just learned not to get caught. So it wasn’t hard for Fíli to reach the doorway he sought without being noticed.

Thorin would kill him if he found out. Unless Bifur could explain faster than his uncle could draw his blade. He and Kíli had been trying to track her down for days. She was either guarded by the elves or just plain missing during that entire time.

Now he had finally found her.

He checked the blades in his sleeves and belt, and edged closer.

Their insufferable follower was inside seated at a silver mirror with a short comb in hand working at the matted mess of her hair.

Even with all of the indoctrination that Balin had hammered into his head as a dwarfling -- and most of it had stuck -- he was hard pressed to find a compliment for the sight. She was in half the elf garb she had been wearing, and half her travelling gear. If her hair had a determinable color, it was impossible to tell at the moment. It -- she -- was a mess, top to bottom, and she was, as per the norm, muttering angrily under her breath non stop.

He and Kíli had, one day while riding, discussed their collective guilt. It was small, but present. She had travelled alone through the wilds following them. She had looked increasingly desperate with each appearance. It had been obvious that she had no experience travelling. And yet she had followed anyways. Even in the face of Thorin’s violent diatribes she had continued to repeat “Erebor” while pointing to herself. Even when Thorin had ordered the two of them and Dwalin to ‘encourage her’ not to follow. Even when Thorin took her only knife. Even when he took her bedroll.

She was stupid. Or malicious. Or both.

And definitely going to be killed if she tried to cross the Misty Mountains. Probably by Goblins, thinking about it. Which meant she was going to be eaten crossing the Misty Mountains.

Well, he and Nori had a plan for that already. Dangerous and suspicious wasn’t enough for him to want her dead, though with every interaction, that impulse got closer.

First though, he had to get answers about what Bifur had implied.

King Dain.

Dain.

He needed answers.

“ _What_? _Whatdoyouwantnow_? Thorin _hasalreadymadehisdecisionclear_. _Areyouheretoreiterateit_? _Likeyoudo_? _Toobad_. _Iamgoingto_ Erebor. _Youdumbfuckscannotstopme_. _Iamsavingyouridioticlives_. _SohelpmegodIwill_. _AndifIhavetostealthatpaperweighttogetthrough_? _Sofuckingbeit_. _Imtrappedinpornhell_. _Youlotarebeingjerks_. _AndIreallywantadamnburger_. _Sobeusefulorfuckoff_.” She had jumped to her feet when he stepped into the room, spitting the words at him. There was only one exit though, and she wasn’t going to vanish into the halls again.

He was tired of chasing her through the corridors in the hopes of having whatever bastardized version of a conversation he could achieve.

This had been his only option. Cornering her. That didn’t mean he liked it. Their mystery guest had some foreknowledge that might save their Uncle on this quest, and he needed it before they left in the morning. And he wasn’t going to assume anything about himself or his brother until he got a few things confirmed.

It was a risk of course. Thorin was not a dwarf to contest. Whatever she had shown him that morning had him as angry as her comments about Thror back in Hobbiton. And Fíli had not thought that was possible.

A necessary risk.

And now for the second one.

“Bifur spoke to me. About what you told him. About Dain.”

She frowned, broke eye contact and sat again.

“No.” And she went back to her hair.

“You told him Dain would be King of Erebor.” He took a step nearer. “Well, he told me you said Erebor, Thorin and Dain and flapped around until he caught on. He came to talk to me.”

Other than a confused glance, she just kept working at the massive snarl.

“I need to know how it happened.”

He winced at the snapping sound as she tore at the hair. He used to have to salvage Kíli’s hair after his brother’s weeks’ long refusals to comb it resulted in a similar situation. The worst session had taken hours. But there were burrs involved that time.

“I need to save him.”

“Fíli.” She turned sharply, “ _YoudorealizeIdontknowwhatyouresayingright_? _Thatitisjustalongstreamofgibberish_?” He waited, and she rolled her eyes, “Fíli words,” and shook her head pointing at herself.

Right.

In his defense he had not tried to speak to her since Bag End, and even then it had only been a few sentences. He still felt like an idiot. That didn’t fade when she scoffed, gestured with one hand, and turned away again. While he tried to sort out how to break down his question into mime -- and it was discouraging that Bifur had failed -- she continued struggling with her hair. She got more and more frustrated as she went, muttering and flinching and making no progress. The one small tendril that seemed to have escaped the chaos reached her middle back. The rest was tangled so densely it was barely to her shoulder blades.

Kíli’s had only been so bad the once. He still complained about it.

He was struggling to find a way to communicate time, looking to place the danger somewhere on their journey. He kept an eye on her, half expecting her to try slip out of the room to vanish again. Or throw another plate. Or steal one of his knives again. Instead she sat, and cursed, and attacked the snarl. Kíli used to do this. He would get his hair so snarled and tangled that their amad would give up on it. After a few days of suffering, Kíli always came to his older brother to ask for help.

She wasn’t going to, no matter how pathetic it became.

Eventually, inevitably, the comb got stuck.

He actually smirked at her misfortune. It wasn’t as if they had asked her to follow them across the wilds. If her hair tormented her for the rest of the evening, it was only small beginning of a recompense for how blasted annoying she had been to them. They’d had to add an extra to the watch through the night. Thorin had made them wipe all traces from their campsites.

It had been obnoxious and exhausting. And pointless.

“ _Youknowwhatfuckit_. _Fuckit_. _Ialwayslikedpixiecuts_.” She leaned across the table for a pair of scissors with angry tears threatening to fall.

Fíli did not decide to cross the room. He did not decide to stop her.

But he couldn’t just let her chop off her hair. He did not like her but that would just be… just no.

She was staring at him. Fíli had probably overstepped.

Except, her eyes had softened a bit, even while she grimaced. She was trying to pull her wrist out of his grip, not that she could, even as she leaned slightly into him. She was muttering under her breath, but it had none of the vitriol he had grown accustomed to. It sounded more plaintive than anything.

“No, Frey.” He took the scissors, hardly noticing he had instinctively shortened her name as he tucked them into his belt. “No. I am not going to let you cut your hair off, Frey. Give us the comb. I used to do this for Kí when he was an idiot. So. I did this a lot. You’re also an idiot, so I’m old hat at this.”

He laughed as she worked out what he intended. She blinked and sputtered and sort of cooed -- he didn’t have another word for that sound -- while her eyes went glassy for a few seconds. Then she shook her head. Absolutely gob-struck, staring between Fíli the comb and the knife. Like she did not know how to process someone doing something nice for her.

Fíli ignored the tickle of guilt.

There hadn’t been any kindness between herself and the company. In either direction. This wasn’t a kindness. This was keeping her from vanishing again.

A second chair joined hers, and he looked for a place to start.

If Mahal was feeling generous, by the time he was done she would feel charitable enough to answer his questions.

“ _Waitno_. Thorin willhaveahissyfitaboutthis. _Hesaidnottotalktome_. _Atall_. Uggggh. _OkayhowdoI_ …. Thorin. Words. Me. No. _Idontknowifhegetsasangryatyouasatmebut_. _Youshouldnt_ \--” She had started escalating to her normal frustrating shouts.

Interrupting seemed the easiest way to go.

“No. I know. My Uncle told us not to discuss-- not to have any words with you.” He shrugged. “So shut up.” And to make his point clear, he pressed a finger over her lips.

It was wholly unexpected when she went doe-eyed and quieted into what he could only call compliance. He wasn’t about to argue, but it was still strange. He turned her head back to the mirror and started.

Salvaging Kíli’s hair had often devolved into wrestling matches. Frey just grimaced, and inhaled sharply when he accidentally yanked her head. He was right that it would take a while, but over the course of a silent hour he had the worst of it sorted. As he patiently detangled the last snarls against her scalp, he finally spoke, “Frey? Dain of Erebor?”

She jerked away and hissed at the pull of the comb. He pulled her back by the shoulder, and shifted to her side so he could see her face while he finished.

“Dain of Erebor?”

Frey watched him out of the corner of her eye while she chewed on the inside of her cheek. She nodded.

“Not Thorin? Not Kíli?”

She shook her head. “Not Fíli. Dain. Erebor.” And now she was acting quite interested in the floor. She moved to stand as he managed to pull the comb smoothly through the last of it. Given an opening she was going to be out the door and gone. So he pulled her back down, neatly parted the hair by her temple, and started braiding.

And hoped no one walked in on them.

Mahal protect him. Especially not Thorin.

The brushing was bad enough.

“ _IguessFanonwaswrongabouthisthen_.”

But it wasn’t as if he meant it.

He brushed the rest of the still gritty hair off her neck and over her opposite shoulder. She twitched.

“ _ThoughIthinkImgoingtoneedacoldshowerafter_.”

Or as if she understood it. She was blushing scarlet for some other reason. She was probably shifting in her seat to get more comfortable after sitting still for so long.

Still.

Best not to be caught

The laced round braid pulled the hair off her face while he prodded, “How is it Dain of Erebor? What do you think is going to happen to us? A battle? A coup? What do you think will happen to us? Fíli, Kíli, Thorin?”

He had finished the first braid before she answered. Then it was just a word, and spoken with great reluctance. “Azog.”

“So he’s alive? When? The Misty Mountains? The forest? The Lonely Mountain?” She tried to rise from the chair, so he kept her in place by starting a second braid on the other side. But his questions were beyond her understanding.

“Fíli?” Conflicted, she was glancing at him too rapidly for him to hold her gaze. Then with a steadying breath, she caught his hands, arrested the braiding, and finally made eye contact. “Fíli. Me Rivendell? Thorin, Fíli, Kíli...Azog. Me Erebor? Thorin, Fíli, Kíli...no Azog.” She swallowed and added emphatically. “Me. Erebor.”

That… wasn’t what he expected. Genuine, wide eyed declarations made no sense with what he had seen of her. Nor did genuine concern for their lives. Nor did what had sounded like a solemn oath. She was, for a moment at least, a different person.

They sat there in taut silence, midway through a braid, eyes locked, with her clutching his hands and enough tension in the air to spread on toast. She was intense, but now it had a tone of desperate resolution rather than aggravation. He wasn’t even aware that his jaw had dropped slightly and he had leaned closer in surprise.

So. Naturally, that was when Kíli found him.

At least it wasn’t Thorin.

He jumped up and away, abandoning the unfinished braid.

“Fíli! Well hello brother, pleasant afternoon? Uncle is looking for you. May I suggest we…?” The next time they sparred Fíli was going to wipe the ground with that smirk.

He followed Kíli out with just a nod back at her.

“Not a word Ki. I needed Frey to answer some questions.”

“Oh I’m sure you did, and I guess you got a positive response since you were--.”

“I used to braid yours.”

“Oh, right. Claiming her as family, are you?

“Ki?”

“Yes brother mine?”

“Shut up.”

 

 

* * *

 

It took several minutes for Frey to move. Because clearly. Obviously. Fanon had got it wrong. The damn dwarf had referenced Kíli. Obviously Fanon was wrong about the meaning of braiding in dwarvish society.

Or, she needed to set aside a few hours to blush. And possibly crotch-punch the presumptuous oaf.

She finished the abandoned braid and tied it off the end with the other piece of leather. No reason to not keep them. They were pretty. It had not a thing to do with who had done them nor what her mind had conjured up during the braiding. It wasn’t at all related to fanon thoughts of innuendo and proposition and bedrooms. Not attached the porn the braiding had prompted. Nope.

No.

Better.

It wasn’t that they were pretty. It was that they were effective. That was a much better excuse to keep them. Yes. Because her hair would get in her eyes otherwise.

That’s why.

But the mirror was still there, and she saw her face, still a bit doe-eyed and ingenue-like, and promptly began to blush. “I hate this place so much. It’s just a combination of all the almost good parts of...dammit. Stupid fucking attractive dork being all stupid and hot and helpful and sweet. Not fair.”

She hid in her room the rest of the night.

Eventually, long after the rest of Rivendell ate their supper, there was a knock at the door. She wouldn’t have let them in. But Nori didn’t wait for an invitation.

The star haired dwarf slipped inside with a tray, and closed the door behind him. It was presented with a bit of a flourish. Tea, bread, fruit, and even a bit of meat, which she knew must have come from the dwarves stocks. It was placed on the table with a generous smile before Nori sat to join her, grabbing a piece of bread and gesturing.

“ _Thoughtyoudlikesomemeat_. _Yehaventhadanyhaveyou_?” Nori grinned and pushed the plate closer to her, “ _Youknowlassifyoufollowus_ Thorin _isgoingtohavekittensoverit_. _Thehalflingseemstohavetalkedhimofftheedgebutstill_. _Heaintgonnabehappytoseeyouagain_. _Donchagofollowinusto_ Erebor. _Aintsafeforus_. _Youdgetetsureasstone_. _AndIdontwannaseethat_.”

She smiled a bit at him. It was a strange day. Twice now a dwarf had been nice to her. That was unprecedented.

Maybe Thorin wasn’t oh-so-mad after all.

They ate for a moment in silence, until she coughed on the bread. Nori jumped up and put the cup of tea in her hands.

“ _Goonlass_. _Drinkitdown_. _Youwontbehappyaboutthis_. _Weknowthat_. _But_ Fíli _insistedwedosomething_. _Weknowyoudfollowafterotherwise_.” He was smiling so genuinely Frey was a little thrown off. Not even Lindir smiled at her like that. Well, if one of the only dwarves showing her some kindness wanted her to drink some tea, she could be compliant for a few minutes.

Afterwards she was going to have to try and explain some things to Nori while she had the chance.

The tea wasn’t very good. A little cold, too bitter, and no sugar or cream to break the way it made her mouth feel grainy after swallowing. But Nori nodded encouragingly, so she downed the rest and returned to the food.

Why was Nori still here? He wasn’t eating, not after that first bite. She blinked and startled to realize she had almost fallen asleep.

Furious that her body was going to let her, she shoved herself to her feet and toppled forward immediately.

Nori caught her easily.

“ _Comeonlass_. _Comeon_ Frey. _Igottagetyainabedwithablanket_. _Elvesshouldcomecheckonyainthemorning_. _Youllbefine_. _Justdontfollowus_. _Byelass_.”

The the idea of sleep was too tempting, and she drifted away as a blanket settled over her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There wasn't any khuzdul in this chapter. It's freaking me out. Don't worry. Next chapter I'm back to my usual ways.  
> Also, this behemoth was 7500 words because the schmoop got out of hand and Meph told me not to cut any of it, so.... I hope you liked it? 
> 
> http://sunspotcreations.tripod.com/lbgweddings/id17.html if you want to see the flower meanings I was using. Which you do. 
> 
> AND: I adore everyone that reviews. If I could send you all cookies I would. But I cannot. So I give you porn flashes instead.


	6. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they progress towards the Mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shockingly. nothing to really warn you about this chapter.  
>  But all love and affection needs to be heaped onto
> 
> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles)  and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr)
> 
> I did not want to write this chapter and they yelled at me until I did.
> 
> You should go read the lovely stories they write to say thank you.

“Do they think they’re being subtle?” Ori asked Balin, eyes wide in surprise.

Balin glanced over the scribe’s shoulder to the pair seated on the edge of camp, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, softly talking to each other as they looked over the rather stunning landscape and smoked. And it was stunning. Two days outside of the hidden valley had them in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. It made their travels harder in the days, but the vistas they were treated to, and the sunsets in particular, were exceptional.

The betting pool had been paid out not long after their pre-dawn departure from the elven house. Of all people, Bofur had won it, and was gloating to all the others. It had been obvious from the moment the company started out on the road that something had broken open between their leader and their burglar.

Balin for one, was pleased to see it.

Thorin hadn’t had much cause for happiness in the last hundred and forty years. If the hobbit had been able to see past the unpleasant surface, so much the better. Balin’s support for them had been absolute from the moment he had noticed his king’s regard reflected back -- somewhere before the Trollshaws -- but had turned into a vested interest during their first lunch break after Rivendell, when Bilbo wandered close and muttered something that left Thorin trying not to smile.

It had taken until they made camp that night for the rest of the company to cotton on to the obvious.

However, it was also clear that there was still plenty to bet upon.

There were now three pools going. The first was waiting for them to make some kind of official statement -- Balin had firmly placed his coin in the ‘post-quest’ category there. This was Thorin after all.  The second was waiting for them to, as his brother put it so eloquently, “start knocking boots instead of dancing ‘round it.” The third, Balin had not bet on. Nor did he condone those that had.

It was, in brief, a bet on how long it would take before they fell apart and who would be at fault.

Though to look at the two of them at the moment, that purse would never pay out.

“No laddie,” Balin said at last, “Don’t think they do. I think they just expect us not to say anything about it.” He gave the young dwarf a pointed look and waited for the accepting nod. “Thank you. There’s no need to be bothering them about it. Besides, any interference will invalidate the purse for you. So best keep it to yourself.”

Ori nodded again and finished the last of his stew.

Kíli had brought down a doe that afternoon, and none of them were going to argue with properly fresh meat. The food at Rivendell had been a bit lean for their tastes.

“Laddie, you told me that you’d explain what is was that you and your brothers were shouting about. Didn’t sound much like a nice chat about the weather.”

“Aye, what was all that hollerin’?” Dwalin said, dropping onto a log with his usual charmless harumph.

“It -- ah. It was about the contracts. But it’s not anything to worry about now.”

Balin chewed on the end of his unlit pipe, surveying the uncomfortably squirming dwarf. That had been a rather vague reply, and Ori was rarely indirect, though, Balin had been trying to teach him how.

He had not heard much of the fight between the brothers ‘Ri, but enough snatches and quotes had carried to make it clear it wasn’t a simple spat about who was going to gather firewood that day. After a few moments, he found the likely guess, and asked, apropos of nothing, “The trolls?”

Ori’s head popped up in time with Dwalin’s, but where the first was astounded, the other was wary. He and his brother had discussed the possibility that they’d lose fully half the company due to that mess.

“Yes. How did you know that?” Ori asked.

“The trolls do fit that clause rather nicely don’t they, lad? But, what seems a bit strange is that all three of you are still here. I would have thought at least one of you would have had the nonce to reread the contract. And surely you recalled the phrasing.”

“Oh. I...uh... may have talked with them.”

Dwalin’s booming laugh caught the attention of the rest of the camp for a moment. “Talking. That what ya call that? What do you do to someone when ya yell then?”

Ori looked up defiantly. “I’ve never had to, Mister Dwalin. Talking takes care of most of them.”

Dwalin considered for a moment, then laughed louder. Ori was trying to look unflappable. It wasn’t going well, but Balin knew his apprentice better than most. He could already tell that there was something more than the admiration of a noted warrior in the scribe’s eyes when he looked to Balin’s brother. He just wasn’t sure yet quite what he was seeing.

There had been rumors a decade or two back about another of the ‘Ri brothers. Of course, the two of them had been in the middle of a contest of will at the time. Nori had broken into the royal chambers no less than a dozen times in the space of a year to leave notes and presents for the princes. Dwalin still didn’t know how it had been managed. Needless to say, the pair had yelled and fought and sparred in the ring rather more than hated rivals tended to.

Naturally, rumors had flown. Ered Luin was rather insular in winter, and gossip was a thriving trade.

But nothing was ever announced, no beads were exchanged, no braids were plaited in anyone’s hair. Nothing was ever said, so Balin could make no comment, and could not properly ask what had occurred, if anything.

So Balin smiled noncommittally at his brother who was watching the young scribe like he had just found that a kitten had claws after all.  

“Took my advice then, did ya? Decided to try bein’ a bit bolder when your kin starts in on ya?” Dwalin half saluted with his waterskin, and Ori’s face lit up like a blaze.

“I did.”

“Just the once?”

“No, I uh. Back in Rivendell, the first night.”

“Oh,” Balin interrupted, “Is that was Nori wanted to talk about, then?”

Ori nodded, “They wanted us all to head back to the Blue Mountains.”

Dwalin smirked and leaned in, “And ya...talked with them then, too?”

Yes, whatever may or may not have occurred in the past, it seemed that a different Ri brother was intrigued by the clumsy efforts of his brother now. Balin said nothing, and did not wait, did not want to intrude, just slipped away and across the camp to Glóin’s side.

“Glóin m’lad. How would you feel about opening up another purse?”

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin and his nephews were sparring in camp as the sun went down.

“You must begin learning to defend yourself.” He had said as he insisted that Bilbo observe. That way, supposedly, he would see proper technique and be better able to mimic it later. Watching though, was resulting in little education and a great deal of speculation. For instance, what Thorin would look like with Orcrist, his namesake shield, and no shirt. Though he had to speculate on what that last part would look like.

Of course, it wasn’t helping that the whole of middle earth seemed to be conspiring to paint him a beautiful picture. Or maybe it was just by favor of Mahal that the dwarven-king had the gift to traipse about the wilderness with a permanent light breeze and a back glow of golden sunlight.

Bilbo wasn’t objecting.

Let no power in control of such things take his commentary as a complaint.

Quite the opposite.

Later, Thorin and he would sit with their pipes in companionable silence, not actually touching, but content as they had every night since leaving Rivendell. There weren’t enough trees about for them to use them to advantage.Though, both were clearly inclined to find a sheltering cave, or tree, or maybe just a large rock. It was all a bit surreal, and still made his mind drift off from time to time while they marched onwards.

He hadn’t behaved like this since he and Marigold Bolger had spent the better part of their teens in various haylofts and wildflower fields.

This was even better.

Bilbo was quite certain that he’d think fondly of Rivendell for the rest of his days, no matter what happened on the quest or between Thorin and himself. It was always going to be a soft spot for him. He even had an offer to stay at Rivendell permanently. After a particularly vicious verbal spar that had been overheard by a certain elven lord, Elrond had offered him a home for as long as Bilbo pleased. He had declined, politely, stating that he was contracted to the company, and he would not go back on his word.

He had memorized the offer though, if he ever needed to taunt Thorin.

Yes, the memory of Rivendell was always going to make him smile. On Midsummer in particular.

Luckily, Thorin was either oblivious, insouciant or too uncomfortable to ask for details about all the flower weaving and decoration Bilbo had subjected him to. And unless he was asked directly, he wasn’t about to volunteer what he had actually done.

Though, at the moment, he was content to just watch the spinning terror that was his -- that was Thorin. He was armed with Orcrist, and had his shield in place, and was running his nephews in circles. True, Kíli preferred his bow, but was anything but unskilled with his sword, and Fíli had two of them, by all that’s green. Neither had landed a hit yet. Not a one.

Thorin on the other hand was sporting that tiny curl of a smile that had first caught Bilbo’s interest. He parried another strike from Kíli, pushing him back a few steps. Then he knocked his heir to the ground before spinning to do the same to the younger who was attempting to tackle him. After the lengthy lead up, it was all completed in rapid sequence and apparently served as an end to the session.  

The spectacle really had done nothing to teach him about fighting form.  Of course, by the way Thorin was staring at him as he helped his nephews to their feet, it may have all been a pretense for the dwarf to show off. A pretense Bilbo was happy to indulge.

Bilbo jumped when Bofur dropped down next to him with a bowl of stew.

“How’re ya doin’ Bilbo?” Ever effable, hat jaunty as it hadn’t been in weeks, Bofur seemed as pleased as Bilbo. For different reasons he assumed.

“Well,” Bilbo said with a grimace for the pine needles that had just blown into his meal, “I think I am already looking forward to our next stop in a real town. As much as I enjoy the company of you all, I still prefer a bed to the dirt.”

“Oh I’m sure you do.” Bofur sniggered. “You seemed right happy in Rivendell. Plannin’ on runnin’ off to live with the elves?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No. I signed that contract after all. I’d just prefer it if we could travel and have all the comforts of my smial -- most particularly my larder and cellar -- at our disposal. Is it really so much to ask that I be able to have a meal without fishing part of the scenery out of it?” Bilbo flicked the last of the pine away and took a bite. It was passable, but not promising, since game would be more scarce as they progressed and the fare wasn’t likely to improve.

Bofur was laughing again, but obviously trying not to.

Bilbo elbowed him, and laughed back when a bit of the stew spilled on his hand. “What’s all this chuckling about, bâha-e?”

“Ah Ah Ah little hobbit, don’t go saying that where the others can hear ya. Don’t want to ruin your fun do ya?”

Bilbo smiled magnanimously. Bofur’s inadvertent translations had been the start of Bilbo’s knowledge of khuzdul. It was hardly _that_ secret a language. The conjugations were a bit complicated, yes, but that was the only real hurdle. Between Bifur using it constantly in tandem with easily deciphered iglishmek and Bofur answering his kin by repeating things in Common tongue, Bilbo had built a decent working knowledge of the language before anyone had noticed. Certainly enough to stay ahead of the majestic numpty who was once again staring with a look that made it clear he disapproved of the open landscape.

The hobbit didn’t wink, but he was fairly sure he had conveyed the sentiment, even without the motion.

Bofur was watching him though.

He didn’t say a word. Just rolled his moustache and gazed at his friend significantly.

Thank Eru for the dwarves and their bizarre rules of propriety.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you this addled by being on the road for more’n a month, Bilbo. Wishin’ you were back in the elf-house?”

“Something like that.” He couldn’t help taunting Bofur a bit. “I had a wonderful time in Rivendell.” But as his friend sputtered, Bilbo took pity on him and continued, “No, no. Its just that by the time we’d reached Rivendell, I think I had nearly forgotten what a proper bed even felt like. We hadn’t had tea in ages, and the fact that I got to take a real bath without any fish nibbling at my feet? Absolutely wonderful is all. Now we’re back out here, and yes, I miss having all of that.” He shrugged, “Nothing I won’t get over with a few weeks of whining.”

It was easier not to think about Bag End when he and Thorin were sparring, verbally or otherwise. He could let himself focus on his next quip and rejoinder. But there were times like this, when he really thought back to the comfort of his kitchen and his armchair, when he wanted nothing more than to curl up with a book, or laze a day away with a huge bag of pipe weed. He missed it fiercely of course.

He just filled in the hole by taunting Thorin whenever possible.

Speaking of which, their leader had wandered over with his own bowl.

“Tomorrow Fíli will begin teaching you.”

Never one for pleasantries.

“Oh, hello Thorin, nice of you to join us, pleasant evening, enjoying your dinner?” Thorin was not amused, “Now then, tomorrow Fíli will be teaching me what, exactly?” The dwarf nodded to the blade Bilbo had left against a nearby boulder. “You’re joking.”

“I am not.”

“Weren’t planning to ask me before arranging this? Thought you’d just tell me and I’d follow your orders?” Maybe Bilbo had meant to sound teasing, but his real response slipped through, and he heard how affronted it sounded.

“Yes.”

They were in another staring match. It shouldn’t have been surprising, they’d had four truly blissful days without descending into sniping and bickering. Some sort of record that. Bilbo settled in, rolling his toes in the earth and setting his jaw. He hadn’t backed down before the whole long mess of Trolls and sacks and wargs and Rivendell, and he wasn’t going to now.

It must have been obvious that this was about to start, because Bofur jumped up and grabbed both of their bowls.

“Think the both of ya’re about done here, why don’t I take those for ya?” And he scurried away. Not far. Bilbo was sure Bofur, and most probably the rest of the company was just behind the group of low stones, listening.

“So which part has your hackles up, Master Baggins? My expectation that you will do as ordered? Or that I expect you to be able to use that elvish pin without hurting yourself or another in the company?” His jaw clicked as it snapped shut. “You’ll work with Fíli until you’re not a danger, then Dwalin will take over.”

There was a little hint of amusement, but overall, it was not a pleasant exit as the dwarf walked away.

Bilbo grumbled at having lost the argument, grumbled that he hadn’t even made an argument, and he kept grumbling as he stomped away for his evening smoke, alone.

* * *

 

 

“And you’re certain she drank it?”

“O’course she did. Tipped right over. Besides, we’re a week out. She’d be out here already if’n she hadn’t. The elves’ll keep her there, no need to fret. Same’s I told you the last three times you asked.”

“My thanks Nori. And you’ll--”

“I’ll be keepin it under my beard, doncha worry bout that. Didn’t want to see her to get ‘et anymore’n you did. Seems we’re rid of her now, though.”

And with a sharp nod, Nori slipped back across the camp, snagging Óin’s trumpet and Bofur’s hat along the way. Fíli watched him go with a shake of his head. That was one problem off his list at least. Kíli had finally given up the ghost on mocking him about his method of obtaining information and finally started to discuss real plans and protections.

They had to keep their uncle alive.

No matter the cost.

Maybe they could get Dwalin into their little conspiracy. He wouldn’t like the source of the information, but Bifur could explain what he had seen once more. It should be enough to win him over.  If it wasn’t, well, Fíli could be pretty persuasive on his own, and with Kíli helping, getting what they wanted was all but guaranteed. Especially from Dwalin. It was the only advantage of Dwalin seeing them as dwarflings still.

They hadn’t explained what they knew to Nori or the others yet. For now it was a conspiracy of three puzzling out how to keep their uncle safe. Bifur was unexpectedly sharp with strategy. Fíli berated himself in a voice that sounded an awful lot like his Amad’s about underestimating someone.

The problem was, he and Kí and Bifur had been puzzling for a week as they hiked up into the mountains, and had no real plans. They had goals, that was it. Hard to come up with a plan when the list of options for Thorin to endanger his life were limitless.

Just about the only certainty was that if Azog was alive, Thorin would lose his damn mind. Would almost certainly do something monumentally stupid. That was all they had decided. That his uncle was an idiot on this subject.

He sighed.

They would have to try again in the morning.

The mountains were infested with goblins and orcs, all three knew that it was a likely location, and coupled with how frantic Freya had seemed, Fíli was anxious.

He was the only one though.

With the sun hovering on the horizon and painting the world dramatically, the company was happily lounging over the landscape. Some were smoking. Some were gnawing on nuts from the trees they had passed earlier. Most were just enjoying the calm.

Then there was Bilbo. He was flopped against a rock in exhaustion. Day three of training at least had gone a little better the first two.

But, at least tonight Fíli wasn’t bandaging anything. The leather wraps had helped enormously. He had tried his best to get his sword out of the way of the hobbit’s leg, but he was fighting decades of muscle memory that insisted weapons went forward, not backward. It was almost surprising that he hadn’t slashed just on instinct.

The gash on Bilbo’s arm was his fault too. But, indirectly. Yesterday they had wrapped his blade to keep Bilbo safe. They hadn’t thought they needed to wrap Bilbo’s little dagger. Fíli knew he could dodge any strikes.

But then Bilbo had actually managed to block Fíli’s sword, and, without enough strength behind the parry, the blade had knocked back, ruined the shirt, and opened his arm. He wasn’t sure if the injury or the bother of repairing the garment had caused Bilbo’s foul mood.

No matter.

Tonight, he had wrapped both blades and insisted Bilbo wear Ori’s long tunic. It was better than no protection.

All of which meant that they hadn’t cut off early due to blood, and Bilbo was exhausted. By the time Fíli had taken pity and declared them done, the hobbit had been almost shaking trying to get the blade over his head to block. Throughout each of their sessions, Thorin had hovered.

He thought he was so subtle.

Thorin had never been subtle in his life.

Berating Fíli for injuring Bilbo, then berating Bilbo for getting injured had been testament to that, and there was probably a hushed conversation happening over whether his little rambling tirade counted as a declaration of intent.

It didn’t if it was up to Fíli. Not that his post-quest bet had anything to do with his opinion.

His mind was wandering as he waited for their meal to be done.

“They’d best say something before I accidentally call him uncle. This is getting out of hand.” Kíli declared as joined his brother. “Don’t think that Thorin would take kindly to that.”

“You don’t say, Kí? I think Thorin’s as likely to deck you as give you middle watch if you slip up like that.”

The brothers shook their heads as they watched Thorin wander casually to Bilbo and speak for a moment before nonchalantly stepping away from camp. At least Bilbo had the sense wait a few minutes before following with a limp and a smirk.

“How’s his training going?”

Fíli rolled his eyes, “You’ve watched us, you know it’s not going well.”

Kíli chuckled, but fell silent when Fíli didn’t join in. “What? Something wrong?”

“We’ve got to have a plan, nadadith.”

“We’ve got a plan, nadadzanid. Don’t let Thorin die.”

“Great. Nice plan. Lets try again with a few more details shall we?”

“Fine. If the pale orc shows up --”

“Thorin is going to charge him.”

“Not if we charge him first.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stupid breathtaking sunset.

Stupid majestic king.

Stupid training.

Stupid stupid quest.

And he was out of pipeweed.

So Bilbo sat on a log a ways outside of camp, and glowered, since he had no other recourse. This was one of those days when he wanted to punch Mr Bumptious right in the nose and march his hobbity feet right back to the Shire. The snipping had been escalating for days, but today it had broken into a vicious fight. There had been fewer of those since Rivendell -- it used to be several a week -- and that just irritated him more.

It didn’t seem unreasonable to think that the tosspot could find it in him to just speak to him like an adult, considering that they were still regularly sneaking off from the others to kiss like the end of the world was coming. But no. Thorin bloody Oakenshield had only the two linguistic styles. There was the officious, wordy, insensible King voice that brooked no arguments and refused to pause for logic. Then there was the dark, growling, lusty Thorin voice that could curl Bilbo’s toes instantly.

And he was not allowed to switch to the King voice when Bilbo was half-molten by the Thorin voice.

And for it to be a lecture about taking his training with Fíli more seriously?

He was a Hobbit, by all that’s good and green, not a warrior. He was never going to be a warrior. He had let Fíli try, and yes, Bilbo no longer flailed about quite so randomly. And yes, he no longer worried he’d take his own foot off with his blade. But, that was about as far as he was going to go.

He could train until the hair on his feet turned grey, he was never going to be able to outmatch the dwarves.  

Not that Thorin listened to that argument. Nor to the argument that his arm was still tingling and weak from failing to block a blow yesterday. Nor the argument that he just wanted an evening without being bludgeoned.

So Thorin had tried to seduce him into compliance with that incredible voice of his, and then order him to go train. Bilbo’s response when he heard the command had been a bit more vulgar than a proper hobbit should even know, let alone speak aloud. Fortunately Thorin had understood the depth of the very hobbity insult and shut his mouth at once. It had dropped open again when Bilbo really lost his temper and started shouting in no less than three languages.

By the time Bilbo reached for the khuzdul insults, he was well aware he had probably crossed a line, and did not care. He was only vaguely aware of what it meant to call someone a “amalfund fasl-ilbêb lalkhith” but Bofur had winced when Bifur had used it a few days earlier.

Thorin had snapped then, and they started shouting and threatening without any context, just character blows and general insults. They never once mentioned what they were actually arguing about.

Of course the argument -- fight, battle, possibly best to call it a verbal assault -- had taken place within range of the others. Of course they had listened in. Of course. Because there was no privacy or decency to be had on the road.  

He scowled and grumbled and pitched a rock haphazardly into the trees below. Then another. And another. Then all the rocks nearby him.

Bilbo turned to find more, and found Thorin standing a few steps away. Looking as utterly incredible as he always did, with his insufferable King face plastered on.

“Do you intend to banish every stone in the vicinity, Master Burglar?” This whole formal business when they were alone was not a good sign. But Bilbo wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. If Thorin got to act like a child, so did he.

“Yes. I do. You rock-headed dolt. So you can be on your way.” Just to be spiteful, he turned his back and heaved another half dozen stones to clatter into the trees.

Stupid majestic king.

Bilbo was exhausted, and sore, and having been reintroduced to the glory of fluffy wool stuffed pillows he wanted his own back. And all the annoyances of the road that he hadn’t paid attention to while he and Thorin hiked side by side and talked the day away were starkly obvious when he was alone. No one was forcing Ori to do weapons training, and he probably needed it as badly as Bilbo. But Bilbo was being treated differently. He was being treated like something that needed protection because he was clearly too weak to handle himself.

Weaker than the dwarves, fine. He could admit that.

But he didn’t want to hear about it all the time.

He only realized he had sunk back onto the log when he noticed his Majesty join him.

Bilbo scooted a bit farther away, feeling petty.

“You have to continue training.” If it hadn’t been said with such a blatantly false layer of pretension, Bilbo would have jumped back to yelling. A glance confirmed it. Thorin was trying very hard to hold onto his mask.

Tempting though it was to prod and poke and force the King to be mature and emotionally deeper than his favorite silver teaspoons, Bilbo knew it would only make a bigger mess. And, anger put to the side, he intended to stay with the company. They were insufferable, but he was fond of them all. The twit seated next to him in particular.

“Fine, I’ll continue. Not that it will do any good.” Bilbo clipped, “But I’m taking the evening off before my arm gets so sore it snaps in two.”

Thorin acquiesced to that with a nod. And they sat in silence, too far apart for Bilbo to feel the waves of warmth that normally kept him cozy. Eventually the anger in the air tempered. Cautiously, Thorin shifted closer an inch at a time, until Bilbo surrendered and leaned into his arm.

“Bilbo, we should discuss--”

“No.”

“It would only be appropriate that--”

“Nope.”

“But it is importa--”

“No Thorin. I don’t want to watch you trip over your own feet trying to be eloquent right now. If you insist on talking, find another subject.”

The sun sank lower; the trees were tipped in gold and the forest below was exquisite. Tomorrow they would be into the mountains properly. They had made camp just beside the marker for the start of the high pass. It was at least two days to cross. Probably more. Bilbo was not looking forward to it. Except that they would be unlikely to find a clearing large enough for Fíli to be able to beat on him.  

“Earlier,” Thorin began, “you used several insults you should not even know.”

“Oh, what? Because I’ve led such a clean and closeted life in the Shire? Well excuse me Mr--”

“No. Because they were in khuzdul.”

“Oh.” Bilbo shrank back down.

“How did you come to learn them?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because I’ve asked, and because it is Ir-rûrîk’unsas ur’Khazad.”

Bilbo grinned, still not deigning to look at what was surely a very frustrated king.

“Aktibi.” 

Thorin growled something too low for Bilbo to hear, and the hobbit couldn’t help the snort of laughter.

“How?”

“As I’ve told you many many times Thorin Oakenshield,“ Bilbo turned, letting go of his grudge and anger, “I’m very skilled with tongues.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh Travel chapters make me crazy. But its worth it, because I bet you can guess who we'll be with next chapter. And we all know what happens in the mountains.... or do we? mwahahahaha  
> Oh, and thank you Random Panda for making me go back and really pick at what I knew about Bilbo's behavior here vs canon. But you still don't get to see what changed yet to make him the way he is.  
> I love the reviews, and the concrit and any other sign of your enjoyment. I don't need it per-say, but wow does it perk up my day.  
> Thank you!
> 
>  
> 
> Khuzdul:
> 
> bâha-e : "my friend"  
> nadadith : "little brother"  
> nadadzanid : "big brother"  
> amalfund fasl-ilbêb lalkhith : "half elf dick-licking little fool"  
> Ir-rûrîk’unsas ur’Khazad : "safe secret of the dwarves"  
> Aktibi : "I know"


	7. The Edge of a Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a line was crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) are just the most incredible support. You have no idea. 
> 
> I'm obsessive and they're so amazingly patient. 
> 
> A bit of gory torture and death. Also lots of wine.

It was waking up in a guarded room with Hobbits staring at her like a zoo animal that gave her brain the push it needed.

It should have been obvious from the get go. A solid decade of fantasizing on the possibility should have made her more inclined to see it for what it really was, but practical realism had delayed the notion surfacing.

But she was finally coming around to the realization that there was a chance-- a possibility rather -- a slim, tiny, infinitesimal -- a fragment of a chance, not even worth considering -- that she wasn’t dreaming.

Maybe.

That consideration didn’t become an epiphany until they brought her a second meal before nine o’clock. That, for whatever reason, not the feet or the ears or the foreign language, but second breakfast, made her really start looking around. Really start to observe.

She had spent a couple of years buried deep in the fandom; deep enough to have gone through all the production art books and ogle all the details. She had learned a bit of khuzdul and sindarin from reading too much fanfiction, but she had never really learned how to speak it. There were a lot of names and clips of dialogue memorized, of course, just from keeping the movies on in the background while fiddling online or cleaning the house; so she had some very specific phrases permanently emblazoned in her mind, but nothing all that useful. Unless she needed to lead a charge into battle.  Then she was set.

But as she stared at the world around her, it was obvious that she could not have fabricated all of this detail from the remnants of memory she had. There was just too much.

And if she hadn’t invented it….then….

She did _Not_ faint.

She did lose control of her knees and fall to the ground hyperventilating.

Poor hobbits didn’t know what to do with that, so they set a cup of tea and a small cake next to her and stepped away to give her some privacy. A little hysterical giggle kept trying to burble out of her throat. She kept shoving it down, hoping to avoid seeming any madder than she already did. It was insistent though. Everytime she wandered up to a new thought it tried to spill out.

If she really was, and it was impossible, of course, but if. IF. Then it was a major blessing they hadn’t understood her after all.

Blood rose in her cheeks. Not the sweetly precious blush people talked about when they were being romantic. It was more of the scaldingly hot, ‘look like you’ve been sprinting a marathon during an Australian heatwave’, sort of look. The hobbits thought she had taken sick. They came in with cool water and a cup of earthy bitter tea they made her drink. Her stammering attempts to explain that it was shame were lost on them.

But since rumors of their cooking skills were not exaggerated, she ate what they brought. Athelford seemed especially pleased by her appetite at elevenses, and eventually left her alone while he had a pipe.

She promptly climbed out the window. Simple.

Breaking into Bag End was equally simple.

By a look around, it seemed like Bilbo had taken his mad dash not too long before she broke the lock on the back door.

So she sat in Bilbo’s chair, cursed the dwarves for eating everything, and panicked for half a day.

Then ran to the party tree and retrieved her things. Then panicked more. Then took the single dose of tylenol in her bag to quell the caffeine headache trying to rip her eyes out. Then lost her temper and smashed her useless powerless phone to death with a fire poker.

It wasn’t her most productive day.

Finally, as afternoon waned, she shoved logic into the back of her mind, took hold of her courage, and started to plan.

“I need supplies. I need food. I need travel gear.”

She had, well, not much, in her purse.

An ace bandage, tweezers, a few half empty tubes of nail glue, a period cup a friend had given her as a joke, some alcohol wipes, a bag of peppermints, and a decent travel sewing kit were potentially useful. The rest was garbage and credit cards and worthless paper money. She didn’t even have her penknife with her.

That was when she decided to rob Bag End.

Lobelia was never going to get to steal the spoons.

As she dug through Bilbo’s closets and cupboards for small valuables that didn’t seem like heirlooms, she found a proper travelling coat, several packs and a bedroll musty enough that it must have been his mother’s. Yes, there was a bit of guilt as she bundled up his things to sell, but this was important. More than he could understand.

Hopefully, he’d forgive her if she managed to save Thorin’s life so they could have epic throne sex. No one that likes sex argues with epic throne sex after all.

She grabbed a map, grumbling.

“Its supposed to take, what? A week to get to Bree? Or is it a few days? Either way. That’s going to suck so hard. I don’t have a horse, well, pony I guess, since I’m apparently dwarf sized. Or am I tall hobbit? I don’t fucking care. Cock. I’m just going to have to walk there. Balls. Balls. Balls. Ok, um, if I see a pony, I’m stealing it, simple as that. Aaannnnndd. Fuck. I’m so not in shape to keep up with them when the shit hits the fan and they start sprinting left and right. Why couldn’t this have happened four years ago when I was still on the team and you know, in the fandom. I am not a natural sprinter. Maybe Gimli was lying. Actually, better if he wasn’t. Need them to be alive at the end of this. Speed is good.”

She started to pace.

“Ok so, well, first I’m going to have to fricking jog to Bree since I can’t exactly sell Bilbo’s stuff here. They’d notice. That’d spoil things. Also, jogging, good practice, I need to keep that up until I convince them to let me join them. So I guess I’ll be jogging daily, pony or not. And probably just lifting heavy things as I can. I need to get back in shape. And I have to get a move on. It should take them a week, maybe less.  I don’t know.

“Oh fuck. Oh balls. Peter Jackson. Mother fucking Peter Jackson. Is this book or movie? That’s important. I hope its book. Please be book. Fuck you PJ. I loved the movies, but please let this be book. Let it just be movie aesthetic. Book plot. I don’t know it quite as well, but it should be easier to save them. No Azog. That’d be useful.

“Oh merciful tap-dancing Moses. Ok enemies. Right. Fucking hell there’s a lot. Orcs? Yes. Wargs. Trolls. Goblins. Stone giants. Spiders. Elves-- do they count? Fuck it, Thrandy does. Elves. Dragon. If this is movieverse, four dozen random monsters they crammed into the final battle I don’t even know the names of. Yeah. Yesssss. Oh wait, and bats. Yeah. Okay. I need a weapon so I can kill things. All of the things. Maybe just a big fuck-all stick, then I can just whack them until they’re dead. I really need to learn a ranged weapon too. Fuck. I need _food_. I need some way to convince them to listen. Thaaaaaat’s not going to be easy. Pretty sure they hate me. I can’t believe I said I wanted to….God. I am so glad they don’t know english.”

She looked back at the table of various things, looked at the packs she had found, looked at the dusky Shire outside the window. A bit of helpless, hysterical laughter slipped out.

“How the fuck am I going to do this?”  

But, in the end it wasn’t really her decision. It was too irresistible. She just had to find a way. Besides, if all this madness wasn’t real, then there was no harm in following along and playing. And, if it was real? Then how could she not try?

Anyways, the fandom would never forgive her if she didn’t.

* * *

 

 

Fuck the Fandom.

That was her first coherent thought once she clawed her way to consciousness.

Frey woke slowly, dragging herself up out of the haze that seemed insistent she stay asleep. A bright afternoon sun pierced through the window and burned in her eyes as she blinked them awake. Her mind was still muddy, but something was obviously wrong.

Exhausted as she had been since arriving in Rivendell she doubted she would have slept past lunch. It had been mid-evening last she remembered. It was midafternoon now. She was starving, more than a few missed meals deserved. And she badly needed a toilet. Therefore she had been asleep for quite some time. A day, most likely, someone would have woken her if she’d slept longer than that, surely.

“How did I sleep through almost a whole day?” she grumbled as she found the bathroom. Finally getting to pee let the last of the haze clear, events resolved in her mind, and she found her first coherent thought.

Because everyone has a line, and hers had just been crossed. Thus.

Fuck. The. Fandom.

For a moment, she stood, fuming, with a pair of scissors in her hand, ready to hunt down and shave bald every last one of those assholes. Even Bilbo. Even Bilbo’s feet. But tempting as vengeance was, the instinct to throw in the towel was too strong.

As her blistering tirade faded out, she realised a second fact. She must have been out for more than a day. And the Elves must have been in on it. Because she needed another betrayal before breakfast.

She spun, fully ready to hack off every bit pretty elvish hair her reach allowed, and found the door was locked from the outside. Frey’s tattered temper shattered. It may not have been the door’s fault, but it did bear the brunt of her anger. Poor thing. When she was done verbally and physically venting her frustration about an entire universe an hour later, all the lovely carvings were obliterated, and her shoulder hurt. Her throat was hoarse and she had heard the faint murmuring of her jailers.

Well. Fuck them.

She climbed back into bed.

 

* * *

 

That trader had cheated her. There was no way of knowing by how much, but he had been far too happy when they were done to have not. But she had no idea what the silverware was worth in the real world, let alone in Bree. The rest of it was even more a mystery. And even if she did, she had no idea what the conversion rate would be. So she had gone up to a merchant and played dumb. Literally and figuratively.

She felt a bit bad about selling Bilbo’s things to the seedy looking fellow; it would probably all be melted down by morning. Hopefully by the time he returned, if he returned, he would just blame Lobelia. She was more hopeful that this all would go to plan and Bilbo would just live happily ever after with Thorin at the mountain.  But it got her enough coin to purchase food, bargaining chips, clothes, camp supplies and leave a pile after.

It needed to be enough for a pony. She wasn’t going to catch them without a pony.

She looked over the things she had already and crammed what she could into the packs she had taken from Bag End. The package of oilskins was heavy and smelled terrible, but, then, everything smelled terrible in Bree. After mucking her her way across the Shire, _she_ smelled terrible.

It was all a matched set now.

She sniffed the waterskins and winced, grateful she had her normal one with her still.

But she slung it all on her back anyway, and marched off, following the smell, to find someone who would sell her a ride.

The less said about that debacle of an interpretive dance routine the better.

The fierce looking man took the rest of her coins in the end. And she felt like she had begged for the privilege. All of them, and then pointed her towards the last stall, where a scruffy greyish pony was munching on a flowering bush through the window.

An hour later she was on the edge of Bree, half dragging the pony along, having given up on mounting for the time being. She had barely managed to get her bags on him. And he had bitten at her. Not that she could go complain to the man. He had vanished right after. In fact, it was possible the pony wasn’t even his.

She wasn’t going to think about that. She had a Company to chase down. Then convince she wasn’t evil or insane. Then save.

She was probably a solid two days behind them, and about to step into the wild.

Goody.

This was going to go well.

 

* * *

 

For all that the elves seemed to be assisting the dwarves’ objective that Freya stay in Rivendell, they weren’t doing a very good job watching after her. After a day spent in her room with a tableful of food, she was very bored and even more annoyed.

The porn had abated but not vanished, and she was blissfully alone in her room. Unfortunately, couldn’t banish the spectre of who was in her brain long enough to do anything about her need for a one woman spelunking expedition.

She had to assume that the White Council had done their thing. She was quite certain that the Company was gone. And, she guessed that Galadriel -- Frey was certain it was her even if Elrond had been less than forthcoming -- was too busy to be as frequently pornographic as she had been.

So Frey snuck out. Because apparently the good people of Middle Earth didn’t ever think to lock their windows. And, with a bit of a detour in the middle, she made her way to a lovely garden and basked in the midday sun.

Now, Elves were inscrutable most of the time. She knew this. Placid bitch face and all that. Glory though, when he found her a few hours later, had the decency to at least look mildly impressed.

“Don’t worry Glory. I’m not escaping past this here garden right here.” Frey smiled sloppily, hoisting a bottle in salute. It was one of six in the grass around her. One was empty already. The one in her hand she had just opened. Elves made great wine. And while it wasn’t the most noble of plans, she intended to sit in the grass and drink Elrond’s wine until she passed out. And if there was any mercy in this hell she was living in, she would wake up back home where she would have a scalding hot shower, and then probably go promptly back to drinking until she forgot all of this forever.

Glory was watching her refill her cup with a queer expression. “You are _awarethatthecompany_ you _arrivedwithhasdepartedfor_ Erebor?” Playing language games while drunk was extra hard. “You are _goingto_ follow _themto_ Erebor?”

Luckily Glorfindel had spent enough time around her to have gotten good at making his questions clear. Freya laughed and shook her head vehemently.

“Nope. No. Nuh-uh. No Erebor for me, Glory. I am going to stay in Rivendell. And hope I get to go home pdq. But in the meantime, I plan on drinking most of Elrond’s stock of wine. This wine.” She held up the bottle to show him. “This one is excellent Glorfy. Sorry, Glory. I’m going to drink all of it. Every bit.” She beamed an inebriated grin and a tiny little smile appeared on the elf.

“You _will_ not follow _themtotheLonelyMountain_?”

“I told you! I’m staying in Rivendell! Maybe forever. Cheers!” She tipped the cup back and emptied it.

By the time she looked back down, Glory had vanished. She giggled and started bouncing back and forth as she started humming a song. Then she realized what she was singing and laughed harder, refilling her cup. She reached behind her to the flower bushes and plucked one. The enormous bloom had just been set into the cup -- an effort to be classy -- when she heard someone return.

Glory was back.

With a blanket, a large basket, and three more bottles of wine tucked against his side. She cheered, flung her arms in the air, and ducked as wine fell on her head.

Best. Day. Ever.

Who the hell would argue with drinking with a hero of ancient legends who looked like a blonde Adonis?

Most of the next bottle went into him. He gestured her quiet as he emptied a bottle in what she was sure was him saying, ‘I need to catch up.’ She had concurred and helpfully kept his cup full. Then he drank another. And another before she finished her second bottle. Elves. He wasn’t red faced, that would be too indecorous for an elf, but he was moving far too meticulously for him to be unaffected.

Before she drank past the point of caring, she had wondered why the elf was supporting her excellent plan for the day. He must have had a reason to day drink like a college freshman. That was now gone. Then her new best friend pulled out a pouch and a pipe, and it was really gone.

It was Shire weed.

Dear God. No wonder Gandalf loved the Shire. It knocked her on her ass in minutes and kept her there as the sun started to sink.

It wasn’t surprising when she switched from humming the song that had been in her head all afternoon to singing it while bouncing her head back and forth in time with the rhythm in her mind -- which had nothing to do the rhythm she was humming by the way.  It was, however, a thoroughly appropriate song for her to be singing. Highly apropos. And it was a delightful shock when Glorfindel tried to join in.

“Sow me the ayy to oh home?”

She froze with a huge smile before tackle hugging him.

“I didn’t even know you guys could get drunk! You- You’re as wasted as I am.” She yelled, sitting on his chest and ruffling his hair.

Then she promptly started teaching. Glory was a fast learner. Learned the lyrics faster than she was learning Westron that’s for damn sure. And while he didn’t know what he was saying, he was liking it. By late afternoon he had it down perfectly. And he was the one who insisted they stand and dance, not her.

Not dance. Jump. Stomp. Flail.

They didn’t notice they were being watched.

“Show me the way to go home! Bum Bum Bum! I’m tired and I wanna go to bed! Bum bum ba bum!” She shouted -- it couldn’t actually be called singing anymore -- before pointing back at him.

“I had a little drink about an hour ago! And it got right to my head!”

“Wherever I may roam!”

He joined her voice as he tried to refill her cup. Most of it watered the grass.

“On land or sea or foam! You will always hear me singing this song--” Glory cut off, cup to his mouth, stomping, and she finished the last lyric alone. At the top of her lungs.

“Show me the way to go home!”

He grabbed her shoulder to keep her still, shushing her laughter, and very carefully set an empty bottle on her head. Once he finally had it balanced they both cheered. Which of course knocked it off again. Sober, he would have caught it. Drunk, he juggled it a moment before it hit the grass and rolled away.

She downed her cup and looked back at her drinking partner, “Next you need to learn ‘If all the Young Ladies’ Glory! Then we can sing about rude sex with the womens!”

But he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring over her shoulder like cops had just arrived.

Which they sort of had. Lindir and Elrond were standing at the entrance to the garden.

They had taken inscrutable to a whole new level. Their expressions wouldn’t have shifted if they had found her riding a balrog. In either sense of the word. They would have done the same single blink and the same lifted eyebrow that she and Glory were now receiving.

He snickered unhelpfully. He had probably gotten in trouble for this before.

“Hiiii. Lindy, you’re no longer my favorite elf. Glory is. Sorry.”

She waved with the bottle after she took another drink.

“ _Thereissomeoneherewhowouldspeakwith_ you.” Frey frowned, glancing at Glory. He was much better at enunciating. She would have to have him repeat things so she could understand them from now on. The two elves parted and Lady Galadriel walked gracefully into the room all magnificent and beautiful and insufferably innocent looking.

Frey blinked. Frowned. Cursed. Flung the wine in her face. And ran for it.

Glorfindel snorted in laughter behind her.

 

* * *

 

She took a long slow calming breath and counted her packs for the eighth time, as if something could have gotten lost since the last time she stopped to do it, about three steps earlier.

There was no more space to stall in though. She was practically in their camp, and they really needed to keep a tighter watch. This was just sad. She had almost had a panic attack barely thirty steps from their fire and they still hadn’t noticed her. If she had any luck they’d be shocked enough to let her pull a bit of interpretive dance and try to explain what all that mess in Bag End was about. This was too important for her not to grow a spine and try.

It had to work. She had to find away. No one wanted dead Durins.

She threw one last silent prayer at the universe and forced herself to walk.

Glóin jumped about two feet when she emerged from the underbrush. His shout got everyone else’s attention, and her hope evaporated in front of her.

That was a lot of weapons.

Even Bilbo had a little knife in his hand.

“ _Whatisshedoinghere_?”

“ _Howdidshefollowus_?”

“Glóin _whatkindofwatchareyoukeeping_?”

“ _Howdidshegetawayfromthehobbits_?”

“ _Theyreonlyhobbits_. _Whatdidyouexpect_ Kíli?”

“ _Whatdoyouwantdonewithher_?”

Every last one of the weapons was pointed at her. For a minute she got lost trying to decide if Dwalin’s axes or Kíli’s bow was more terrifying to her. She had promised herself that she would be perfectly behaved this time. That she would stay calm and not insult them. It was her only hope of repairing what she broke that first night and she knew it.  

Pretending she was confident, she nodded at them. No one tried to kill her for it. So she walked towards the befuddled dwarves, into the center of camp, and dropped the heaviest pack on the ground.

“I brought you presents. You’ll need these, but you don’t know it yet. I hope its true no matter the canon. And yes Thorin, this is me trying to apologize.” She knelt and flicked open the ties to show them the neatly folded and ungodly heavy oilskins. They looked curious now.

But with a few short steps towards the hobbit, she replaced that curiosity with animosity.

“Yeah, okay, didn’t expect you all to be that fond of him yet. That’s good though. Bilbo is good people. And I’m not trying to hurt him. I think he’s great. But okay. Plan A failed. Plan B it is then.”

She abandoned trying to get closer and held out a bundle towards the now heavily guarded burglar. “This is for you. Better jacket. Because the velvet really is ridiculous, Bilbo. Also your handkerchiefs.”

Plan B was to now drop it and walk out of camp, putting her life in the faith that Kíli wouldn’t shoot her in the back. Plan B did not consider that they might stop her leaving at all. Yet, when she bowed and tried to leave, Dwalin and the princes blocked her path. Nori and Dori stepped up on the other side and she found herself facing down Thorin.

This wasn’t going well.

Only advantage to getting killed right that second was that the law of poorly written stories might come into play. And she could go back home now instead of in seven months. That wouldn’t be so bad.

“ _Sowhatstheplanthen_?” Bofur said at her side, knife in hand instead of his mattock.

“I’m sorry guys. I’ll leave. I’m happy to come back after it rains and all the oilcloths make sense. I’m hoping you listen then because Wow you aren’t going to listen right now. Please don’t kill me.”

“ _Shecannotbetrusted_ Thorin.” Dwalin said, and she knew it wasn’t good, whatever he had said.

“ _Ihvetoagree_. _Shefollowedusintothewild_. _Shespokeof_ Azog.”

“Hey wait. Why did you say Azog. No need to talk about Azog. I already know I insulted you on accident when I mentioned Azog and Thror but I totally didn’t mean it like that alright?”

“ _Wemaybebetterservedbykillinghernow_.”

“ _Thatsabitharshuncle_.”

“ _Necessary_.”

“What the fuck are you guys talking about? Why do you look like that, Thorin?” She stared at the dwarf-king, and jumped back at the hatred there. “Oh ball sucking hell.”

Then strong hands tried to lock on her arms. But she hadn’t grown up with three brothers without learning how to get out of wrestling holds, and every instinct kicked in when she felt someone grabbing at her. She didn’t even notice it was Fíli until she had already wrenched away and elbowed him in the face.

Not her smartest move.

Now the dwarves had switched fully from ‘cautious and grumpy’ to ‘defensive and angry.’ The sad little knife she had bought in Bree was in her hand and just as soon as her mouth remembered how to work, she intended to apologize and talk until they listened. Plan B was shot, so she was proceeding directly to Plan F, pull a Bilbo and talk until they opted not to kill her.

But the escapes that worked against her brothers weren’t really on the same level as a troop of battle trained dwarves, so it shouldn’t have been surprising that when Fíli grabbed her the second time, she wasn’t able to slip away. And of all things to think while Thorin stalked towards her and the company braced for a likely execution, her mind was giggling that she was going to die in Fíli’s arms and wasn’t that just ridiculously fairytale-esque. Though if it was a fairytale, Fíli would hate her less.

Stupid Middle Earth.

“ _Youcantkillher_.”

Bilbo’s voice stilled the rest.

“ _Excusemeburglar_? _Didyouhavesomethingtosay_?”

“Bilbo? What’s going on?”

“ _Youarentgoingtokillher_. _Dontbe_ \-- _Sheisasingleperson_. _Quitemadbythesoundofit_. _Howevershebroughtusgifts_.”

“ _Youexpectmetolethergo_? _Soshecankillusinthenight_?”

“ _Noofcoursenot_.”

She really wished she knew what was happening. At all. Any of it. Bilbo was standing with his hands on his hips and fussing at Thorin. Thorin, for his part was scowling back at him. She was busy looking at his hand hovering above his knife’s hilt.   

“ _Iwillnotleaveherarmed_.”

“ _Thendont_.” Bilbo shrugged.

“ _Andyoullbetakingmiddlewatch_.”

“ _Fine_.”

She watched Thorin step closer and winced, certain her eyes were hugely wide. He took her forgotten knife from her hand, shoved it in his belt and nodded to Fíli. He dropped her arms.

“Hey that’s mine you-- you jerk!”

“ _Youmaygothen_.” He gestured for her to depart.

“Well. Uh. Thank you?” She took a step, but stopped. He was still looking murdery. Except, she didn’t have any choice but to try. “Um. That’s my only knife. I need it.” She held out her hand and waited. No one moved, so she pointed, gestured and held her hand back out. “I need my knife. It’s tiny, and it’s dull, but I want it. It is the only half-sharp object I have! Give it back.”

Between the adrenaline, the exhaustion, and the frustration of trying to charade her way through the conversation, she knew her temper was about to break.

“Give it the fuck back Thorin. It’s not like you need it. You’ve got four more that I can see right now. Gimme!”

Thorin smirked mirthlessly. He pulled out her knife and considered. Then snapped the blade off the hilt.

She gaped. He placed it in her outstretched hand, where she promptly cut her palm trying to grab the pieces.

And then she lost it.

“You insufferable fucking twat-gobbler! You Jackass! You Prick! That’s my only fucking knife, Asshole. That’s my only blade! Do you think I’m just going to gnaw through tree branches? Am I supposed to just not eat any meat? You oaf. You fuckfaced cock. You.. I just. What. You fucking--” She took a step in, dropping the now useless blade, and slapped him across the face as hard as she could, leaving a trail of her blood on his cheek. Everyone went silent, staring between the steam coming out of her ears and the gawping outrage on his face. She didn’t know what she was expecting. A new knife? An apology? Retaliation?

But before Thorin, or, far more likely, Dwalin, could come to their senses and kill her for it, they all heard a resigned, “ _Nope_.”

Bilbo pushed past the stunned dwarves, grabbed her by the collar, and marched her far into the woods, muttering under his breath. He pushed her to keep walking when they had walked for a quarter of an hour.  

“ _Go. Dontcomebackorhewillkillyou. Youillmanneredrabblerouser. Thankyouforthegifts. Goodnight_.” And he turned to walk back to his camp.

She was too shocked to try to reply.

* * *

 

Frey was not hiding from Galadriel anymore than she was hiding from Elrond and Lindir.  That is to say, she was hiding, certainly, she just wasn’t singling the Golden Lady out for special treatment. She was also hiding from Glorfindel, but only because she was sure he would drag her off to the others rather than invite her to drink more. Gandalf had definitely vanished off somewhere, though she was quite certain it wasn’t after the Company. Useless tardy bugger.

She had spent three days hiding in corners of Rivendell, sneaking into the kitchens for food, and for one splendid afternoon, sitting next to a barrel of ale in the cellar with a cup that never had to be empty. If she had wanted to confront Galadriel before, that had been forgotten when memories of the Dark Queen look she could pull had reminded her that it may not be the best idea. Especially after the wine and the white dress.  

So Frey hid.

Since she knew that Galadriel could climb into her brain from wherever she was in Rivendell, she didn’t feel too guilty. There had been little glancing touches at her mind since they had met. But she didn’t expect the ever placid, golden Lady of Lothlorien to sneak attack her in a garden. The shriek, and the stumble backwards into a shrub must have looked especially ridiculous since it quirked up the corners of the elf’s mouth.

“No. Leave me alone. If you want to rifle through the porn some more do it while I’m asleep, I don’t need to know what you’re looking at. You’re a bit kinky, and it’s weird for me.”

 _Follow_.

“Did you just -- what was that? That wasn’t words. It was just there all of a sudden. Right, I shouldn’t be surprised. You do that sort of thing. Anyhow. I’m not going anywhere.”

 _Follow_.

“Oh ok, you’re going to play the other side now? After everyone else in this valley conspired to drug me and keep me here? That’s cute.”

 _Follow_.

“No.”

 _FOLLOW_.

“Why the hell should I?” Frey snapped, ”You’re in my damn brain at the moment, talking to me telepathically or something. You know the history. I have fucking tried enough. I’m not doing it. I’m going to sit around Rivendell and learn elvish and get drunk with Glorfindel a lot, and pray I get to go home asap.”

Galadriel smiled silently, a perfect image of grace and compassion. But at the same time, grabbed some fragment of smut and transformed it fully from a memory of words to a memory of experience.

_\----his hands roved lower, finding the bottom of the shirt and slowly drawing it upwards, dragging over flushed, impatient skin and following with hot wet open mouthed kisses.----_

The images faded, and she had to take a moment before speaking since breathy squeaking wouldn’t help her sound resolute. That had been brief, but rather more intense than the idle thumbing through porn and observed flashes of fucking she had been subjected to so far.

“Well that’s a neat trick, making me really relive it. However. No. I’m not going to get killed over the chance for some sex. I can get some elsewhere, thank you very much. Also, I think that was Bagginshield you grabbed, so a bit odd, as I haven’t got those parts. You couldn’t have grabbed Kíliel or something?”

_\----Soft brushes of trailing fingers left burning paths in their wake as Arwen drew her hands up the bared expanse of the shieldmaiden’s legs. One arm was wrapped about her lover’s chest, holding her against her own and she ducked her head to suck a mark on the side of her neck. The sharp sting was a maddening contrast to the way the hand ghosted over the pearl of her pleasure, just parting her enough to give her hope without giving her any relief as she was teased beyond the limit of her silence. She moaned----_

Freya slowly exhaled through clenched teeth, blinking.

“Ok, yes, good. I do have those parts. Though that wasn’t my point. Also, that was your granddaughter, so, awkward, but uh… _ahrrm_. Still not going to work.”

Beatific smile still firmly in place, Galadriel sent an impression of something deeper and cleaner than lust or passion. Frey identified it before it could manifest as imagery, and laughed aloud, breaking the spell of it.

“Yeah, that’s not really gonna do it either, sweetie. I got bopped over here without warning, I’ll probably get bopped back out the same way at some point. I’m not living in a rom-com. I’m not going to pull an Ariel and abandon my family back in the real world. You aren’t going to tempt me with the potentials of love or with anything else.”

Galadriel’s expression darkened just a bit, and the glittering light in her eyes changed.

_\----Fíli was standing on the ledge, held captive before Azog on the tower at Ravenhill. His fear was overwhelmed by his desperate shout to save his kin. Fetid breath rushed past him as the pale orc laughed, and thrust the rough blade through armor and flesh alike. The soaring rush of pain that bloomed in his chest quickly overtook all thought. He could hear the cruel laugh behind him. He could feel as the blade stuttered in time with that laugh, sawing slightly against bone and flesh and sending waves of agony crashing against what was left of his hold on consciousness. And as the world went grey in his eyes, he began to fall----_

Galadriel let the image fade away, her faintly smug expression showing her confidence in her tactic. Unfounded confidence.

It hadn’t even been a forced experience, just a memory of a story.

“Nope. Sorry. ‘Valar Morghullis’ you know? That includes dwarves too. I feel a bit bad, and I’d get murdered if anyone ever finds out back home I let them go die without trying to help, but I just wont tell anyone about this ridiculous place when I get back. Problem solved.”

_\----Bilbo fell to the ice beside Thorin, seeing the wound and knowing, even before the dwarf could speak, that there was no hope. It was too much. The injuries were too severe. Despite the blood sodden leathers catching most, there was a growing stain of red below the king. He would have stopped it, would have saved him, would have done whatever the Valar asked so long as he was able to prevent this. But Bilbo could already see the light fading within him----_

She laughed long at that attempt.

“Well Lady, you clearly aren’t paying attention if you think invoking the death of the biggest jackass I’ve ever met is going to change my mind. Right now I’m more inclined to be responsible for it. Besides I’ve seen the movie. A lot. I know that scene. I’ve read more explorations of that moment than you can even fathom. It isn’t going to work. I’m immune. Give up. Leave me alone. I am not going to follow them. They’ll sort out Smaug and the three of them will get killed in battle. It’s worked before it will do just fine now. And don’t you tell me it matters that much, the elves have never given a fuck about what happened to the dwarves.”

She was building into a bit of a rant, enjoying having a target for her frustration that was more expressive than furniture.

The world shifted.

She stopped talking.

The air flickered with something cold and sharp. Like electricity charging the air. Galadriel’s mien went cold, twisted, and an unseen power wrapped tightly around the younger woman. Frey knew what it was even as it started, but that did nothing to mitigate the horror that filled her looking into a pair of deadly star-filled eyes.

Then the elf-witch dragged her deeply into a constructed memory, and forced her to live it in it’s horrifying entirety.

_\---Thorin was straining against the rope holding him hard enough to tear at flesh, trying to reach their burglar. But as the hobbit’s screams grew more broken, as he began to lose the fight for his life, as Thorin was forced to watch, he lost the strength to resist. It crumbled with each gasp and sob and shriek. Bilbo was just a gentle creature of the the green fields of the Shire who had stayed too loyal to the company that had insulted and derided him._

_He had come to help them in Goblintown when he should have fled._

_He had been caught attempting to free them._

_He had tried to fight, stay strong, stay brave, but as the goblins’ knife first broke skin to peel back flesh in long strips from his stomach and feet to throw onto a hot pan, Bilbo had begun to scream, and had not stopped. Would not stop. Not until death stilled his tongue. So Thorin offered the only comfort he could, and stared into the hobbit’s weeping, pleading face and held that gaze as their burglar, their quest, and their hope died under sickly black Goblin blades. Stared, while a goblin lapped at the pooling blood. Stared, while the horrid scent of charring meat gagged them all, and stared as Bilbo’s eyes lost their spark of life._

_By the time the goblins turned to the rest of the company they had no more will to resist and Thorin welcomed it when the Goblin-king himself---_

“Stop that!” Frey screamed, wrenching back, ripping her mind free.

She was on the floor, panting, bent over a bench and trying not to hit the elf before her. There was no way to hide the hoarseness in her voice when she managed to speak, “Just, just s-s-stop, please. That...it isn’t fair. That isn’t what will happen. Bilbo is too smart for that. That was a nightmare -- even in the story -- and the story wasn’t very... very good. Just torture porn. That isn’t going to happen. The fandom is pretty well fucked-up in the head, we have killed and tortured them hundreds of ways, and even we never… even we only made that a nightmare.”

A sense of bleak potential made Galadriel’s opinion obvious.

_The edge of a knife._

Galadriel dragged Frey rapidly back through the few moments she had spent around the company since her arrival. Showed her how just a knock at the door had changed things. How Bilbo throwing her from his house had put him in good standing with the dwarves. How he had found his courage early, fought with Thorin and drawn them together. How near they had come to missing the swords in the troll hoard. How easily her presence could have gotten them all killed in the mad flight to Rivendell. How the quest teetered on the brink of failure.

“Then I should stay away from them! Obviously! Not keep messing things up.”

Another flash of images that recalled the scent of burning flesh.

“No. Stop. That -- what happened to him, it wasn’t real, it’s too far, it doesn’t happen here. It’s not like that. It won’t be. They will at least complete the quest. Even if it just reverts to canon, even if the Durins die. Erebor, Dale, Smaug, Azog, Bolg. All of that. They’ll still do all that.”

The fierce gaze softened. There was a gentle vision of sun-bright gold wrapping protectively around a deep blue shape, which was curling and twisting in beautiful forms to guard the gold. She saw Thorin’s hand linger on Bilbo’s chest after they parted. She saw Bilbo’s hand raise to touch a sprig of flowers in his hair, silent and unwilling to break the spell as a bright little light lit his features.

_Change._

_Possibility._

Bilbo would be more reckless now. He would be rash. Protective. An idiot. Thorin would be worse. If one of them fell, the quest would fall with them. Frey had always thought so, but having met them, she now knew how incontrovertibly true that was.

She stayed on the ground, breathing, brushing away tears before they could fall. Impossibly, endlessly angry.

Galadriel waited, silent and compassionate, as if she hadn’t just forced someone to go through death and torture to prove a point.

Although the point had been taken.

Frey shook off the last of the shaking and rose. There was no way she could be held responsible for the fate of the quest. It was a terrible plan.

“Fine. Then dig around in my head some more, scoop out everything they need to know and dump it into Glorfindel. Send his ass off to protect them. He might be useful at least! He could explain. He could, you know, talk!”

 _You_.

“Bullshit. Send someone who can, I don’t know, use a sword? Or light a fire? Or ride a damned horse?! Send the goddamn balrog-slayer! I bet he can handle Smaug just fine!” She climbed back to her feet, trying to ignore the way her legs were trembling and the frustrated tears that had always shown up at the worst times, “Whatever, Ok. Thorin wouldn’t be happy to see an elf. So send Aragorn! He’s a bloody ranger and it’ll make later alliances much easier to set up. I’ve already proved I’m pretty well crap at this!”

She got an image of herself, standing alone before a glittering lady and a broad, dark, bearded man who towered over her in height and presence.

“What was that?” She hesitated, digging through every bit of Tolkien lore she could recall, “Oh! OH! Mahal? And...lady faaaacccce...uh, balls, what is her name...gardens, hobbits, Yvonne. No, Yavanne. Yavanna! Yes, there we go, Mahal and Yavanna? What do they have to do with all this besides it being a dwarvish quest with a side order of hobbit?”

Her throat tightened briefly at the resonant memory she had just relived and her poor word choice.

 _You_.

“ _Fine_ , they chose me, makes as much sense as me being here in the first place. Fine, I‘ve got all this history sort of memorized, and that’s great. But I’m terrible at this, and the boys really do hate me, give it to someone else. Anyone else.”

Her mind started to flicker with images of stories, bright pinpoint flashes of the quest refracted and reflected over and over in a thousand variations. Permutations and alternatives and choices and substitutions of just the scene on the cliff buffeted her. It was chaos, and by the time it faded away, even Frey was struggling to pick them apart, let alone find the two canon options. The Lady smiled almost sheepishly, with a soft apologetic shrug.

Frey gawked for a long time before she managed to speak.

“You can’t hand it to someone else because you can’t tell the difference? Oh cock gobbling hell….there’s too much fanfiction in my head?! Did you just tell me that I’ve read too much fanfiction so its all muddled up and you can’t tell what’s canon and what isn’t!? Merciful fuck! That’s just. That’s actual irony is what that is. I’m a huge fangirl, so I know it all, but I’m a huge fangirl, so you can’t sort it out? So I have to do this?”

She folded her arms and shook her head, but she had already put together the rest of Galadriel’s implication.

Frey cursed softly, “Fucking bloody hell. The Valar are just idiots aren’t they? Goddamn useless, stubborn, rash, dumbass, godforsaken, whining, miserable assholes. They clearly don’t actually want the idiots to live if they think I’m the man for the job. And I assume you aren’t going to let me wait for them to die and then pop over with some elves to slay a dragon or something? Gah. Just fuck this stupid, awful, terrible, horrid fucking world. And fuck you Lady. And fuck the line of Durin and all of the rest of them too while you’re at it.”

Then she straightened. “Fine. But they are six days ahead of me, the stone giants are going to destroy the pathway, I don’t know shit about mountain climbing and even if I catch them, they’ll probably just throw me off a cliff.”  

_Don’t let them._

“Yeah. Great advice. Thanks.” She scrubbed at her face, and sighed, “Get me Aragorn, or Glorfindel, or both. I’m going to need some things. And set aside a couple hours Lady, I have to explain some stuff about Dol Guldor and the Necromancer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how excited I have been about this chapter. No. Idea. The scene with Galadriel has been written for ages. and Gahhhh I hope you liked it.  
> Thank you to every single commenter and every single comment. If you see a mistake or a major typo let me know since I frequently change things after my Betas have gone through it. 
> 
> No Khuzdul this chapter lovelies. 
> 
> But you can learn more if you come find me on [Tumblr!](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/)


	8. Can't Go Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy wow but [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) were amazing. I wasn't willing to post any of this until I got through this lengthy arc. Just this arc is more than 20k. 0_o  
> They have been just the best cheerleaders I could ever ask for, and then they're still willing to help beta? I mean it, the awesome knows no bounds. 
> 
> Khuz is on hover and a word bank in the end notes.

Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna and Bungo, grandson of the Thain and Master of Bag End had had enough.

There were thirteen dwarves in his house. There was a _Wizard_ in his house.

They had emptied his larder, they had tossed about his dishes. There was mud on the floor and his mother’s glory box. His doilies were ruined. His wine cellar was picked over. He had missed his supper while they ate theirs. They had sung and drank and made merry, and then taunted him with death and incineration.

And now, Bilbo was done. He wanted them out. He’d have nothing more to do with them, and was of a mind to take up a lamp and go hide behind the farthest barrels in his cellar until the confusticated dwarves all wandered off on their madcap quest to get themselves eaten by a dragon.

Except he couldn’t.

Because there was some mad little creature in his parlor throwing a fit and yelling at all the other unwanted guests. He wanted nothing more than to retreat to his office, barricade the door and smoke his way through an entire bag of Longbottom. But no.

Not quite appropriate. He was a Baggins. He had to uphold the name. He couldn’t go behaving like some common Proudfoot. He couldn’t just abandon his guests like that. Especially after fainting as he had. Balin had tried to be kind, but seemed to have all the bedside manner of a Sackville-Baggins. He hadn’t even been offered a cup of tea. Bilbo had to make one himself. Even after the dwarves had…

Really. It didn’t bear thinking about again.

He had had more than enough of this nonsense. Yes, yes. He had pondered the idea of running off with them. He had contemplated how delightful it would be to see the elves and all the places he had read about in his father’s books and heard about in his mother’s stories.

But really. They couldn’t expect him to sign on to face a dragon.

After all, he was only a hobbit. And as this dragon of theirs was unlikely to want to have tea and a scone and chat through til supper about his prize winners and his success at conkers last week, he wasn’t having it.

And that was that.

They’d been somewhat quelled by the arrival of the tremendously rude though undeniably handsome dwarf that was apparently their leader. At least, to the point that his dishes had ceased flying about. They were still calm. Mostly because they were eavesdropping to the best of their ability on what was happening in the room next door where she was continuing to scream and yell.

Oh he only hoped that there wasn’t anyone walking up the road since they would surely hear this racket, and the gossips would dance a jig to find something new to nettle him with.

He would pay a visit to the Gamgees in the morning to apologize for all this bother.

If they would even speak to him after all this association with dwarves and crazy people.

Well, in any case, he wanted her to stop yelling more than he wanted to hide in the cellar, so he walked away from the dwarves in his dining parlor. Not that they were paying him the least bit of attention.  In the kitchen he made a fresh cup of chamomile tea, and pulled a scone from the plate he had hidden while the big bald dwarf had eaten his fish.

The manners of these dwarves, really!

Then, tea and scone were set on a piece of his lovely everyday dishware with a matching cup. Manners were one thing, but he wasn’t going to go trusting a crazy woman with his westfarthing rose and lavender set, obviously. And off he went.

The tide of the argument had ebbed and flowed between her and the handsome imperious arse since she had arrived. At the moment, she was blathering on in whatever language she spoke, and gesturing excessively. Bilbo marched straight up to her, then stared until she faltered and went silently submissive.

“That’s enough of that young lady.”

She was hardly any more intimidating than Lobelia, and he had long since mastered the fine art of defeating those tirades. That’s all that this was. Delivered in a foreign language and by the sound of it more vulgarity than substance, but just the same, a tirade. She was also just barely taller than he was. She was wearing a sack of a shirt and, Eru save him _trousers_. And not even properly loose trousers. They were, he had to admit, fitted.

Yes, this was certainly going to rile up the local gossips if they caught wind of it.  

So he stared her down until she obeyed his gesture and sunk into a chair, looking rather sheepish.

He pushed the tea across to her, and motioned for her to drink some. Then he glanced behind him at the other unwanted guests, and found, to his amusement, that they were nearly as stunned as she was. The two young ones were so far gone as to be a bit slack-jawed. Apparently the concept of ‘not yelling’ had not occurred to any of them.

Mr. Grumpy Britches was apprising him with a calculating eye. All the better. Not that he’d be going with them, but he’d prefer not to part with them thinking so ill of him.

The peace lasted for all of five minutes while she drank and ate.

Then she stood, the dwarves reached for weapons, and she lost her temper.

First the cup and then the plate were tossed, no, _pitched_ across the room to shatter on the wall behind Master Sourpuss. His startled alarm was delightful, and Bilbo would have been happy to stand and snicker at it, but there were bigger issues at hand.

One. The dwarves seemed ready to properly attack her now, and Bilbo wasn’t inclined to try and get blood stains out of the hardwood.

Two. He had liked that cup. He used it nearly every morning.

Three. Bilbo. Was. Done.

So while the dwarves threatened and blustered at her, the hobbit stood back up and grabbed her by the ear.

Then, deciding that having a bit of peace in his house was worth the inevitable gossip, he dragged her out of the parlor, down the hall and to the door. There was a great deal of shouting behind him that he ignored. She wasn’t even fighting. Why the dwarves were feeling so threatened by this silly little thing he was unsure, but he was going to settle this.

Keeping her ear twisted exactly as he would a mischievous faunt’s, he hauled her down the lane, all the way to the small building by the Green Dragon where the bounders were, understandably, confused.

“No, no. I’m sorry, I’ve no idea who she is. Anymore than I know what she’s saying. But she was in my house and she’s causing me a great deal of trouble, and she broke my favorite cup, and I’ll not have her there any longer. I leave her in your care. And I’d suggest you slip her some calming tea before she goes off in another fit. Good Evening Gentlemen!”

And marched clear back to his smial under the hill.

Where thirteen dwarves and a wizard were waiting, chagrined and shocked by turn.

“What is it then? What have you done? What else of mine have you ruined?” He snipped at them.

“Not a thing Mr Boggins.” The blonde elbowed him quickly, “Baggins. Master Baggins.”

“What is it then Master Dwarves? Do you object to the way I dealt with her? Would you rather have her back to keep trading threats over the top of my great-uncle’s table?”

But they didn’t answer. Instead, the perpetually displeased ninny-hammer nodded to Gandalf, “Perhaps he will have some use in our quest after all.” And wasn’t that just the rudest reaction to his assistance he had ever heard? He was fully set to tell Mr. Nothing-is-good-Enough off when the dwarf turned, and half curled a smile in the faintest hint of humor and appreciation.

Bilbo forgot what he had planned to say.

It was a good thing Bilbo was well decided that he wouldn’t be travelling with them in the morning. A few more looks like that, and he knew he’d find himself quite entirely besotted with Master Oakenshield.

 

* * *

 

The mother-maker must have taken him in hand during that abysmal experience. There was no other way he could have lived through that thrice accursed hell of rain and terror.

Thorin had clutched him by the arm the moment Balin had pointed out the stone giant rising from the cliff, and while the grip became painful as they hurried along the path, it had been a comfort to him when his feet slid and he stumbled in the darkness between flashes of lightning.

Then Thorin had shoved him towards safety when a boulder tumbled down to the path and they had been separated. For a moment they were both stretched towards the other, unable to close the distance.

No matter how they had been fighting since the blissful delusion of Rivendell, Bilbo had seen the guilty horror in Thorin’s eyes when the mountain side stood up and that miserable ride had begun. He had heard the rasped cries of his name and the prince’s as the company ran to them after. Thorin pinned him in place with the intensity of his stare, ensuring he was uninjured.

Bilbo had barely been able to do more than try and put his feet beneath him again when all he wanted to do was bury his face in the crook of Thorin’s neck and hide within the great furred coat.

Not that he could, but the instinct was overwhelming.

He thought he was safe after living through a ride on a stone giant in the midst of a squabble with its neighbor. Bilbo shook when he rose, and simply wasn’t thinking at all when he took a step backwards and fell. Now he was looking up, too scared to speak or cry for help.

The wind around him was too strong and too loud for him to hear if the others had noticed, and his own stupid voice was blocked by the lump in his throat. He clutched tighter to the stone and his feet scrabbled at the cliff.

And as he hung there, his mind wandered back to Rivendell and the image of the king crowned in flowers and smiling at him like Bilbo had hung the moon. It wasn’t the time to be thinking of that. He ought to be convincing his mouth to work so he could call to his dwarves and avoid a long drop and sudden stop. But his mind was quit entirely preoccupied with the memory of hair beneath his hands and a forge-hot warmth surrounding him.

All belonging to a dwarf that was just above, and completely unaware of his imminent demise.

“Bilbo!”

Bofur had noticed. Thank Eru for him at least.

His friend was trying to reach him but failing. Bilbo’s hands were sliding on the wet stone and a delirious part of his mind was laughing that he hadn’t had the temerity to be killed by the creature of myth and legend rather than by his own idiocy. But he just couldn’t manage to lift himself.

Then Thorin, eternally dramatic Thorin, half jumped off the cliff, nearly scaring Bilbo to death. He wrenched the hobbit high enough for the others to grab before snagging Dwalin’s hand and climbing up himself. The company stumbled along to a cave and hurried inside. The hobbit sat, trying to be discreet in his distress near the entrance, wishing he could drag Thorin away and lean for a moment against the unshakable strength of the dwarf until his own returned.

For at the moment he had not a whit.

He also wanted to say thank you for the life saving business. Probably even with words.

The rain had slackened to a mist by the time the company was situated.

Bilbo had laid out his bedroll, grateful it wasn’t fully soaked, only thoroughly moist. He was sitting on it, ignoring Bofur’s concerned queries and offer of a pipe, trying not to be jealous of Fíli and Kíli’s proximity to their uncle for the evening. They were likely just as anxious, and maybe even more in need of a loan of strength.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder and without questioning it, without so much as a smirk -- a first -- he rose and followed.

They stepped out of the cave and a few steps from the entrance, into a little hollow, protected from wind and rain, and more importantly, away from the abyss he had nearly been lost to.

He really looked at Thorin in the flickering lightning and dull glow of the moon behind the clouds, and smiled weakly. Apparently a thunder battle was the line at which Thorin could no longer maintain his impeccable majesticness. He was tense, soaked and frazzled, but still had his chin held high. Bilbo caught his sleeve and tried to pull him closer, rather single-mindedly focused on the prospect of contact with that chest and feeling safe for two minutes together to banish the lingering prospect of death. But Thorin refused to shift. And he kept the hobbit at arm’s length when Bilbo attempted to close the distance himself.

Before Bilbo could ask why, the king growled wordlessly, and snapped his eyes to the hobbit’s.

“Do you have no sense? You could have been killed.”

“I -- I’m sorry. What?” Of all the things he had thought might happen when Thorin had beckoned, this fire-breathing tone had been far down the list. His mind was trying and failing to catch up with the anger now directed at him.

“You could have been killed three times over in the last hours, do not pretend you are unaware of it. You nearly died even after the danger was gone. You stepped off the edge!”

“Now hang on, I’m aware of that, but you cannot possibly be angry at me because I was on the ledge with the others, Thorin. Their lives were in danger as well.” He was trying to be reasonable, and if not reasonable then playful. But it was becoming obvious that he was not talking to Thorin, he was talking to the Leader of the Company. And _he_ was not happy with the Company’s burglar.

The two had hardly spoken since starting on the high pass yesterday morning, and certainly had not been alone. The slightly sour tone they had started with had fermented into something truly rank, the consequence of which was the way they now bristled at each other.

“It’s become obvious you have no place amongst us Master Baggins. You have no skill in combat and now you cannot even be trusted to walk a path without endangering yourself.”

“It’s -- If -- It is raining and I slipped!” Bilbo was too flustered to reply properly.

“You are unwilling to even attempt to learn to use your sword.” Thorin continued, shouting furiously, “We would be better off giving your weapon to Ori and leaving you to cower behind a nearby tree. You are more danger than help with it. What use do you claim to have in my Company?”

The outrage in Bilbo’s chest finally cleared away the fog of his fear and let him defend himself.

“You hired me as a burglar not a warrior!”

“Because you can never be a warrior!”

“I never said I was!”

“Then what purpose do you have?”

“Bu -- Burglary!”

“And you’ve done nothing of the kind!”

“Nothing in my contract required I do anything before we reach your wretched mountain!”

“Your contract requires that you not be a burden on us before such a time!”

“A Burden?! Well excuse me if I’ve not been raised wandering the wilds like a barbarian, but I had no need of weapons until you lot blundered into my life and dragged me off on your damned fool suicide quest.”

Thorin snarled back at him, “You’re right, you’re far too _civilized_ to find a place amongst us. You’d hate to hurt your soft little hands.”

“I do everything that is asked of me --”

“Sword training!” Thorin interrupted.

“I have tried! Fíli declared it impossible on this Eru-accursed path. _I_ was willing.”

“You have fought against my authority since I met you.”

“Because you’re a moron and need someone to reintroduce you to common sense twice a day or you’d have gotten us all killed by now!”

The dwarf’s face went dark and Bilbo could see the last bits of Thorin vanish behind the formality of the king.

“You have no use to us, Hobbit. Why should I not send you back to Rivendell this instant? Unless you can persuade me since you’re so clever with words.” The spiteful twist in his tone destroyed the determination Bilbo had been clinging to. It was too sharp, too intense, too vile to have been spoken by the same dwarf who had whispered sweet things as they sat in golden sunsets and breathed each other deep.

And Bilbo wilted under it.

“I -- I -- understood the, uh, the Sindarin at Riven--”

“Binsalb aglâbu Mibilkhagâs.” 

Bilbo exhaled, clenching his fists to his sides. He couldn’t even look up. “And I k--ept the tr--tr--trolls from eating --”

"You nearly got us killed by the trolls when you let them catch you. You cannot fight. You cannot hunt. You are not strong enough. You are not fast enough. You insult our heritage by learning Khuzdul. You disparage our homeland and our craft each day. You have no use on our journey or in our Company, _halfling_. The only thing you have been of use for thus far has been these last weeks to--"

Thorin cut himself off.

A mercy.

Had he continued, Bilbo was not certain he would kept his control on his emotions. There was precious little left of it as it was and Bilbo truly did not know which way they would have broken. Then the miserable oaf opened his mouth as if to continue, and Bilbo interrupted coldly, in as sharp a tone as he could muster.

“Do not finish that sentence,  _dwarf_.” His throat was tight, restraining the outburst he needed to unleash. The wind was howling in the cracks of the rocks. The rain was driven on it to bite at his face. Everything around him was cold, save for the roll of heat that seemed to follow the dwarf.

The same waves that he had grown so used to, taken such comfort in these last weeks, that he now fought not to lean into.

He just wanted one moment of comfort so he could think clearly again.

“I have endeavoured to be brave enough to be considered worthy of my place in the company. I can see that was hopeless from the start. As I am of no use to you, I will be on my way as soon as the sun rises.” Thorin wasn’t the only one to know how to hide behind a facade of antipathy. And Bilbo would be damned if he was going to show a weakness to the heartless bastard, “Unless you think I might endanger someone during the night with my incompetence? Should I go now?

“Would you like to explain to the others yourself why you sent me off? That way you can present it as you see fit so that nothing so paltry as a differing opinion will muddy your flawless leadership.”

He was being cruel and he knew it. He simply did not care. He saw the flicker of obvious dismay on his -- on the confounded dwarf’s face, but rather than reach out and try to soften a response from the idiot, he took it as a target for his pointedly calculated attack.

“Or would you rather I stay so you can retain an avenue to vent your frustration? Or so you can continue to advantage of what you’ve had the opportunity of these last weeks? Is that what dwarves do? Use things? I’m certain if the dragon doesn’t eat you you’ll be more than able to afford to buy someone who will never say a word against you. There will be dwarves lining up to fall into your arms.”

“Do not insult my kind, halfling.”

“Why not, you insult mine daily.”

“I have not. Not since you and I --” Thorin stopped with a sick look.

And some note of viciousness eroded Bilbo’s anger until all that was left was bitterness. He scowled at the dwarf, hating that the moon had emerged from the clouds to light him in a parody of that wonderful night. He laughed ruthlessly at the dwarf and his own foolish broken heart.

“You can just forget that there ever was anything... here. Between us. At all. Forget about Rivendell and the flowers. Throw them out for all I care. It was just a joke anyway.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed.

“I disposed of them that night. Why would I keep them? They wilted and died at once.”

Bilbo swallowed at the incredulous tone. It wasn’t the insult it would have been had Thorin understood what he was saying, but it gnawed at Bilbo in spite of that. But no. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t really meant it then, he didn’t mean it now, so it should not matter to discard the idea.

His chest still ached.

It had been worse than foolish to even indulge the fancy.

“I’ll speak to Balin about cancelling my contract then.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo had no idea what was in the blasted dwarf’s ridiculous head, but he was sure he did not want to know. If this was what had slipped past the rigid censor that controlled the king’s careful tongue, then the thoughts in his head must be too cruel to even consider.  

“I’ll depart at first light. Goodbye Master Dwarf.”

Thorin nodded before giving a stilted half-bow and vanishing around the corner.

Bilbo stood for a long time in the dark, glaring at the moon and focusing on how terrible the dwarf was in every way. Eventually, he had shored up his walls enough to want to leave immediately, and walked back to the cave. And while he did lay down, he was only waiting for the others to fall to sleep before he could slip away and be rid of the blasted lot of them.

He should never have come.

 

* * *

 

 

Contrary to the general opinion of the populace of Middle Earth, Freya was not an idiot. She wouldn’t claim to be a genius, but she was _trying_ to get this right. Which is why she had shamelessly begged to have someone travel with her. Glory would have been ideal because, see above, Balrog-slayer, also, lovely drinking buddy, but she would have taken a stable hand as long as they knew how to ride a horse and speak Westron.

They had refused her. Galadriel gave her some vague reference to disrupting events. Frey gave her the finger.

Glory had stood next to her at the mural of the Last Alliance and provided Westron words for all the things she pointed to. Then he had introduced her to his horse Asphodel who was entirely too tall for her to ever be comfortable near. She left the next morning scowling, with all the supplies she asked for and a sympathetic look from a few of the elves and no one riding with her.

Even with Glorfindel’s horse and the map he had given her, even with Galadriel shoving images of the road she needed into her brain, even with full packs, and all the supplies she had asked for and a spiked hammer at her hip, she had only just caught up to the company. The horse she had sent back when she reached the too narrow paths midway through the foothills. And not knowing how far ahead the Company was, she had walked each day until she was too exhausted to continue.

It still hadn’t been enough. They were still ahead of her.

And the stone giants were awake.

She could just barely hear the dwarves shouting as she watched the giants fight.

She was so fucked.

Her shouts of frustration did jack-crap to help the dwarves on the giant or to stop the other giant from hurling a boulder the size of a house and destroying the path she needed. Her open mouth only made her feel worse as she gulped in a veritable wave of rain and choked and spluttered on it.

There wasn’t any choice but to cower against the cliffside and watch because she’d be damned before she tried to cross through an active shitstorm like this.

But, apparently she hadn’t managed to ruin the quest yet, since the giant collapsed and she heard no sounds of keening or mourning in the wind, only faint cheers. The idiots had all survived then.

Which left her with another problem. Even with the rain stopped. Even with what she had figured out climbing this far up the vague impression of a path that Galadriel had generously called a road. Even with everything now at her disposal, it didn’t matter, because the damn giant had just destroyed the damn thing.

She couldn’t recall if this was supposed to have happened. If the giants had destroyed part of the path in canon. It didn't matter though, because as she edged around the corner, she could clearly see that it was gone now.

Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Galadriel isn’t going to be happy if I turn around. So find a way.”

Lightning burst in a long sequence as the storm died down.

“Oh no. No. No. Find _another_ way self. Because fuck that.”

In the longer moment of light she had seen a narrow ledge leftover. Not even the width of her foot at times. She hauled forward, muttering nonstop about her obvious imminent death. Which it would have been if she had not slid her foot tentatively onto it. It crumbled and fell away instantly.

There was no time to backtrack and find an alternate road.

Below the ruined road, maybe ten feet down, there was a sloped area made from the debris of the landslide the giant had caused. Because walking across an unsettled landslide was a great idea. That certainly wouldn’t get her killed horrifically.

As if it would help, she tied her length of fancy elvish rope around a heavy boulder, harnessed the other end around herself, and slid off the ledge until she had it by her fingertips. “Screw you Peter Jackson. Right in the ear you asshole. Fuck you PJ. Distant thunder battle wasn’t good enough? Dickwad.”

She dropped as gently as she could onto the rubble, and luckily, didn’t disrupt the balance. That was good since she didn’t have the arm strength to climb up the rope, if it even held. With barely enough light to see her hand, she edged across slowly.

Except.

“Fuck. Need to move faster. Have to get across. Goblin trap. Frickity hell. Have to go faster.” She tried, but the slide area rumbled and shifted under her feet halfway across the distance. Faster wasn’t happening.

“Okay, stay calm. You can do this. Magic elvish rope’s got your back. Just need to get over this, get to the boys. Get them out of the cave. Tell them about the goblins. The… fuck. The…. Fuckity fuck…. what is the word for goblins? Fuck. Balls. Shit.”

She clutched at the rope and felt along for the next step she could take.

“Stupid useless brain. You forgot the only useful word. The only goddamn word we need, and you don’t remember it. You useless organ. Okay so I’ll just -- aah! Ah! Ohhhhhhh sweeeet mother of Abraham Lincoln -- Fucking rocks. Gonna die. So gonna die. Doesn’t matter I forgot the word. Gonna die right here. Saves Thorin the trouble. Just -- ahhhhh --- Okay. Pretty sure I’m just gonna be dead by morning, one way or another. So glad I can’t really see for shit right now.”

Then she felt the debris slope away in front of her. Lightning flashed. She was at the end of it.

Now she had to climb up this side. Excellent.

“Okay, right, okay, worry about failing your vocab test later, self. Scale the fucking cliff now. You still have your rope, you aren’t gonna fall into the giant valley and splatter all over the place. Because you have magic elfy rope and it’s not like they’ve ever betrayed you before. Fuckers.”

The monologue helped.

It kept her mind from fixating on what was she was doing. But when she collapsed on the path, arms shaking; the clouds parted, the moon shone, and she could see what she was climbing above. She shuddered.

“Please work.”

She yanked on the rope a few times, vexed, and felt it give. Coiled in her lap a moment later, she smiled at it before continuing.

“Well what do you know? Real elvish rope.”

 

* * *

 

Bofur overheard the fight. Luckily the rest were too far inside the cave. He didn’t want his friend to get turned into gossip in the coming days. Not that any of them would dare gab about it while Thorin was near enough to overhear and subsequently snick their head off with that shiny ancient blade of his. It was a shame they hadn’t made it public. Bofur would’ve liked to talk a bit of sense into his hobbity friend.

Balin probably wanted to scold the king like a toddler by this point.

They had all watched the bickering grow fiercer in the last few days. They had known something was coming, and as most of them had money riding on it, no one had wanted to see it come to pass, well, except Bifur, who had a bet expiring within the week.

But it wasn’t public, so he couldn’t comment. Neither Thorin nor the hobbit had a braid, nor so much as a verbal understanding; there was nothing he could say, and, much as he wanted to drag his friend back to Thorin and whack their heads together until they saw sense, he had to keep his mouth shut.

He would have. Bofur was crass, but this was a question of privacy and decency.

Except that he was on watch when Bilbo decided to depart.

Broke his heart.

He knew the moment Bilbo stepped in front of him what was happening. He just couldn’t stop it.

“Where do ya think yer going?”

“Rivendell, and then back to Bag End.”

“Ye can’t.”

“Yes I can. I’m not wanted or needed here. That’s been made clear.”

“Ye are needed, You do plenty.”

“I really don’t.”

“If this is about what Thorin said about--”

“No it’s about --” Bilbo cut off with a frown, “You heard that.”

“Aye. Didn’t mean to, but I was settin by the entrance here, and the two of you weren’t what I’d call quiet.”

Bilbo’s face was flushed, even in the dim moonlight. He seemed smaller than he had since the first time they had met. Just a little broken thing. He fidgeted. He tweaked his nose.

His tone when he answered was missing his usual impudence.

“I just want to go back to where I’m supposed to be. And that’s not here. Not with all of you. I’m just not made for this. He’s right. You all will be much better off without me. I know that. Say goodbye to them all for me. If you survive all this, then, well, Tea is at four, I’d appreciate a note ahead of time, but I’ll forgive you just showing up.”

There was such a vulnerability to him then, such a show of self-doubt and fear, that Bofur nearly woke up another to take the watch. He could see Bilbo back down the mountain and rejoin the others after.

Bilbo wouldn’t allow that. Bilbo wouldn’t want them to be without one of their number, wouldn’t want to impose.

“Don’t suppose I can talk you round, can I?”

He shook his head.

“I should get on my way before the storm starts up again. There was a cave a few hours back, I’ll stop there.”

Thorin was going to catch an earful over this. And not just from Bofur, though he planned to be first in line. He held out a hand, and when Bilbo quite politely shook it, the dwarf pulled him into a tight hug.

“Good luck Bilbo. Mahazrali-me akyâl’ulkhad.”

“Du astu-ya baha.” He grinned, “Never tell him how I learned. It makes him crazy that he hasn’t found out how I’ve done it.”

“Oh, aye, I’ll keep yer secret, even if ye won’t listen to reason.”

And Bilbo turned to walk away. The path was broken a bit, but the Hobbit was patient enough to keep his feet beneath him. Luckily there was enough of the moon shining through the dissipating clouds to light the mountains and see him safe.  

Bofur watched until he vanished around a bend, pretending he didn’t hear the echo of a strangled sob. When he was gone, truly gone, Bofur turned back to the cave’s interior and his sleeping companions. Tucked into damp bedrolls and soggy cloaks, not a one of them looked comfortable, and his pity extended as far as eleven of them. The King looked to be well and truly miserable. Only fair. He was shifting and fidgeting, and Bofur watched his back for several minutes before he shook his head. That dwarf was not asleep.

Which meant he had heard that. Heard it and said nothing.

They’d all known the two of them were sneaking off together on a regular basis; Bofur’s purse was fatter for it. They’d all known they bickered as much as they vanished into the trees. Based on Bilbo’s response, there had been a bit more between them than just a helping hand between friends. Though, maybe that had only been on the hobbit’s side of things since the king was still lying there instead of going off after their hobbit.  

Thorin would definitely be hearing about it if that was the case.

He made a face and gnawed on his pipe a bit. There was the matter of the third purse. Technically it should pay out. But he had refused to place a bet, him and Balin had felt it to be a bit too rude towards their friends. He was also the only one here, other than the arse of a king they were following, to know what had happened.

He decided to keep his mouth shut.

If he told anyone, they’d want to know what he’d heard, and Bofur wasn’t inclined to repeat what had been said. Wasn’t polite the first time. Wouldn’t be better the second time. Leaning his head against the stone behind him, he settled in for the rest of his watch, trying to think of what to say when Nori woke for his shift, or when he talked to Thorin about the hobbit in the morning.

It was going to be a mite unpleasant in the Company for a while.

 

***

 

It wasn’t long before he heard it. Hadn’t had time to come up with any kind of excuse for letting their hobbit leave. Hadn’t even finished his pipe.

“ _NoIdontcareif_ Thorin _wasbeingadick_. _Hesalwaysadick_.”

“Excuse me, but I don’t see that you have any right to do this.”

“ _Youhaveadestiny_. _Wehavetogetthatstupidring_.”

“Let go of my arm if you please.”

“ _Itsnotlikeyoucangoback_. _Thepathisgonedude_.”

“I am going home, thank you very much.”

“ _Shutupandwalk_ Bilbo.”

Bofur groaned.

Because, How. Just. How.

Why would also be a nice answer, but Bofur had the stone sense to say that climbing up that path in the dark should have been impossible. Down would have been hard enough.

So he was fussing over the How.

He was on his feet, just outside the cave when she appeared, soaked to the bone, slung over in packs, and dragging Bilbo by the wrist. His first look was really for Bilbo, who was disgruntled more than angry and incredulously looking back at him. They had a brief communal shrug for the mule-headed tenacity of the lass.

She had the packs they had seen her with before over her back and twin elvish bags strapped to her thighs. There was a small spiked hammer at her side and a coil of rope over her shoulder. Her hair was caught in a braided bun, and her cloak was clinging to her shoulders. Bofur had pulled a shaggy old dog out of a river once. She made that memory look composed.

She scowled at the cave.

Then she shoved Bilbo into Bofur’s arms and spoke vehemently.

“ _Dontlethimleave_. _Weneedhim_ Bofur.” Both of them watched as she rolled her neck and glanced up quickly. “ _Alright_ Mahal. _Youwantedmehere_. _Trytokeephimfromkillingme_. _Thunderingtwatwaffle_.”  

Then she stepped into the cave and clapped her hands, shouting, “ _Wakeupyoubastards_!”

Bofur couldn’t help snickering at the explosion of flailing limbs that followed. Kíli got half to his feet before losing his balance and crashing back down onto Ori. Dwalin blindly reached for his axes before he noticed who it was and relaxed a bit in exasperation. Bombur made a sound that was half a yelp and half a groan that made Bofur chuckle harder.

The silly little thing was damn good at throwing them out of step.

“Durinul’sharb’abban magajjajuna.” Thorin muttered, refusing to rise past sitting.

“No. Thorin. Please.” She said emphatically, dropping to the ground next to him and grabbing his arm, “ _Youhavetogetup_. _Youhavetogetoutofthiscaverightnow_ Thorin. _Lookat_ Orcrist. _BecauseIforgotthewordforgoblin_. Thorin. Orcrist. _Rightfuckingnowifyoudontmind_.” She shouted the last bit over her shoulder as she rushed away.

She was scrambling around the cave, handing packs out and shoving weapons into hands, which was a bit of a bold move in Bofur’s opinion. Most people wouldn’t have helped arm a group of dwarves who had orders to kill her.

Not that Bofur was planning on doing that. The lulkhith hadn’t hurt anyone, and to hear Bifur mumble about it, she might have some purpose in all this beyond turning their leader an especially vivid shade of outraged purple. So he just watched with Bilbo from the mouth of the cave, as she ran about and babbled. Everyone was fully awake now, standing or working their way to that point, waiting on Thorin’s decision before doing anything about her return.

She froze when she noticed they had her encircled, and started talking again, sounding desperate and frantic and hysterical.

“Please. Please. Please. Please.  _Wedonthavetime_. _Wehavetogetoutofhere_. _Followmeoutside_. _Killmethere_. _BecausetherearegoblinsandIforgottheword_. _Idontwanttodealwithgoblins_. _Plusiftheysee_ Thorin _theyllcall_ Azog. _Dontwatnttodealwiththat_. _Shouldsimplifythingslater_. _Sojusttrustme_. Follow. Please. Thorin. Nori. Bifur. Please. Follow me.” She turned, shoved a pack into Fíli’s arms and repeated, “Please.”

The group was silent.

“ _God_! _IfIstab_ Ori _willyouchaseme_?”

None of them were moving.

“Please, Fíli. Please. _Idontknowhowlongwehave_.” She stared at the prince and brushed a braid over her shoulder.

“Uncle?” She turned to look at Thorin while Fíli questioned reluctantly, “Naragazsubj?” Bofur wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to kill her then.

“Gaahhhhh. Thorin _lookat_ Orcrist. _Fuckingfricketyfuck_. _Justlook_! Please!” She was intense, almost shaking. She sounded like she was trying not to scream.

Thorin drew his short knife, contemplating her with a scowl.

“ _Thatsnot_ Orcrist _youfuckwit_!”

She reached for his sword, but wisely pulled her hand back at his brandished weapon. So instead she turned, pushed her way swiftly between Nori and Ori, and headed towards Bilbo.

Bofur hefted his mattock.

But all she did was point emphatically at the elvish sword Bilbo carried and babbled.

He drew it partway, then fully. It was glowing a bright blue.

“ _Frick. Fuck. Frickityfuckityfrickfrickfuckfuck_.”

“What’s that then?” Nori called from the clump of the others in the center of the cave.

“Gandalf told me that it would glow when Orcs or Goblins were near.” Bilbo’s voice was soft, but must have carried.

The company shifted into defensive positions immediately. Freya spun back with a triumphant shout, “Goblins! Ha! _Thatstheword_!” She pointed enthusiastically at the ground. “Goblins!” She spun an arm at all of them, and gestured outside. “Me. You follow. _Becausegoddamit_. Goblins! Goblins! Goblins!”

They all looked at Thorin then.

But it was Bifur who spoke. “Ikriti-diya.”

Thorin hesitated.

Nodded.

And before any of them could move, they heard the deep groan of a mechanism moving.

“ _Sonofabitch_! NO! No! No! No! _Motherfuckersonofabitch_. _Moveit! Thisissnottheplanatall. Gimmeyourhand!_ ” She jumped onto a small boulder, stretching an arm back towards the nearest dwarf, trying to grab ahold of Kíli while he spun and looked for the danger.

Bilbo and Bofur watched the floor open and plummet their companions into a dark world where the high shrieks of goblin laughter echoed.

The sound of their friends’ yelling faded in seconds.

They were separated. This was not good.

“What do we do Bofur?” Bilbo yelled, looking between them rapidly “Freya! How did you know that? Bofur! One of you! We have to help them! What do we do? Do we follow?”

“We gotta have a plan. We’re gonna go after them.” Bofur grabbed him by the shoulder to pull him away from the chasm into hell.

“ _Dammitall. Fuckfuckfuck. Iwasntfastenough. Thisisbad. Verybad. Veryverybad. Needthering. Havetosavetheidiots. Jesustapdancingchristthiscouldntbemuchworse. Wehavetofindaway_.”

“Bofur! What do we do? Do we follow?”

“ _Idontknowwhattodo. Ididntplanforthisone. Icantfightfuckinggoblins_.”

Bofur stared down at the hobbit, shaking his head a bit. The little burglar wasn’t going to be much help against an entire goblin army.

“ _Fuckit. Gotnochoice._ ”

They had to follow though. They couldn’t leave the Company in the power of the goblins. He would just have to do what he could keep his friend alive through this little suicide mission.

“ _Goddamitthisisgoingtosuck_.”

But Freya was already moving. She had jumped from her refuge to the solid ground by the entrance.  She sheathed Bilbo’s glowing blade, and locked a hand on them both.

“ _Newplan. Dontletthemnotice_ Thorin. _Otherwisekeepcanon_.

Bofur barely had time to shout before she pushed them in, jumping just after.

Hitting the chute knocked the air from his lungs in a rough cry.

He damn near killed Bilbo by mistake on that stone slide when he lost his hammer and saw it chase the hobbit. He could hear the goblins around them. Hear shrieks and calls. But in the dark, it was all too fast for him to do more than curse and tumble.  She had done this. If this killed them? Any of them. If she got them hurt, Bofur was going to make sure she got the same twice over.

They landed in a caged net with some of the others, and Bofur rolled off quick as he could. He dragged Bilbo out with him. He tried to keep the hobbit away from the claws and teeth of the Goblins that descended on them, but couldn’t protect him fully. He could see part of the company ahead, already being led down dark broken bridges where surely they would all be taken and killed.

This was going to shit rather fast.

Nori and the lads were still struggling, still armed, and had killed at least one goblin. Terrible idea. It was only making them angrier, and they had no way to get out of this hole.

Shepherded across an outcropping of stone towards a ratty bridge, he had Bilbo tucked against him, safe. Hidden. Bofur could feel the way Bilbo was shaking, and only hoped he hadn’t taken an injury. They were going to get out of this.

Bofur wasn’t considering any other outcome.

They’d need every hand available to them. Even Bilbo’s. Even Freya’s.

He was so intent on protecting Bilbo in fact, that he hadn’t paid attention to her after cursing her in the first few seconds of his fall. He thought that he had seen Nori treating her the way he was Bilbo. He knew had seen Fíli trying to keep her from the Goblin’s attention. Nothing good would come of it if she or Bilbo were spotted. Goblins enjoyed playing with anything that looked innocent. He’d heard enough stories.

She and Bilbo were going to get targeted.

It wouldn’t be pretty.

Bofur wasn’t thinking about her. So, he started when she suddenly rushed to his side, a goblin trying to gain purchase on her arm. Nori and Fíli were ahead of them now. She must have pulled away from them.

She snagged Bilbo by the coat.

Turned. Yanked him from hiding.

Bofur was too shocked to react.

He just froze, confused. She was framed in torchlight with their hobbit clutched by the lapel of his coat.  

“ _Imsosorry_ Bilbo. _Goodluck_.” Her voice cracked. She was terrified.

Rightly so since the goblin had finally managed a real grip and he could see claws digging into skin beneath her shredded coat sleeve. But afraid or not, she moved confidently.

Too confidently.

With a sharp move, the hobbit was used to bludgeon off her attacker.

A pair of goblins caught Bofur when he lunged, trying to help.  

He could only watch.

Then she took two steps, and flung both Bilbo and the goblin off the edge, into the blackness beyond. She caught herself, windmilling her arms to avoid a similar fate.

The hobbit vanished with a shriek.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ......... I love you guys. Just keep that in mind.  
>  I think I probably need to go hide under something now. 
> 
>  
> 
> KHUZDUL:
> 
> Binsalb aglâbu Mibilkhagâs : Useless language of tree-fuckers  
> Mahazrali-me akyâl’ulkhad : I wish you a bright life  
> Du astu-ya baha : To you as well friend  
> Durinul’sharb’abban magajjajuna : Durin's hairy balls follower.  
> Lulkith : Little Fool  
> Naragazsubj : Orc spy


	9. Into Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there were some goblins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr): There aren't enough words to define the awesome. So I'll put it like this, I'd let them come with me on a middle earth adventure, even if it meant I had to share (or never even have) certain dwarves. That's how much I love them. 
> 
> Also, I am utterly floored by the response to the last chapter. Thrilled, stunned, giddy, and hoping I can elicit such a reaction again. Thank you. This is another 8k+ chapter because I love words, and I'd like to direct your attention to the tag up there about roller coasters.   Enjoy.

Frey had fucked up. Badly. And she knew it. She had known it when the trap opened. She had known it when she hit the stone chute of the goblins' trap. She had known it when Nori had shoved her down, out of sight of the goblins and hidden her between himself and Fíli. She had known it when they crossed the bridge and she saw Bofur was dragging Bilbo along. And oh but had she known it went she flung him off the edge.

She had killed him. She was sure. His survival had been luck in either canon, the exact right place, the exact right time, and a convenient patch of mushrooms.

If Bilbo was dead, then the rest of them were fucked. No way around that. There was no way she’d manage to find the ring, outwit Gollum, tackle an orc, kill the spiders, escape a prison, face a dragon and avert a war. One of those? Maybe. All of them? Not a chance.

They were all so utterly, wholly, painfully fucked.

The memory of seeing him fall was burning into her skull as it played on repeat, and she barely paid attention to the trek down to the goblin king. Not that she could have seen much even if she had tried. Nori and the princes were keeping her away from the claws and prodding spears of their captors, but to do so she was crouched over and there was always someone blocking her vision. She tried to look up several times only to be be firmly shoved back down.

Struck mute from killing the lynchpin of the entire quest, she could only comply.

How long it took to reach the, for lack of a better descriptor, throne room, she was not sure, but her neck and back ached. It could have been a few hours or it could have been a few minutes. It didn't matter, Frey was quite sure she was going to die here. The hysterical cacophony in her head agreed. She'd been pretty sure that death was coming ever since she saw half a damn mountain stand up and start trying to settle a grudge with its neighbor.

Now it was just a question of when.

Her knees hit the ground before she knew they had reached their destination. Nori had a hand on her neck, keeping her there, and she could tell that at least two others were bracketing her. The vibration of the floor from all the stomping finally reminded her ears to try working again, and she gurgled on a laugh. “Oh balls, they’re actually singing. This is actually happening. They didn’t make this shit up. The fuckers are up there--”

A dwarven boot kicked her hard in the leg.

Right. Shutting up was probably the better choice.

Though, she'd prefer to die laughing if it was a option.

Yeah. She was definitely hysterical. The last traces of her sanity were aware of that.

Between Ori’s legs she could see the goblin king climb onto his throne and start to taunt. She glanced through every gap she could, looking for an escape, looking for Gandalf, looking for _anything_ that might help, she wasn’t entirely sure what. A fresh wave of shrieking laughter bounced through the air, and she couldn’t help it.

She flashbacked to what Galadriel had shown her. Made her relive. That smell filled her nose, screams echoed in her ears. Bilbo’s dying eyes flashed and blended with the sight of him falling into darkness. But Bilbo wasn’t here. So either Ori, or... Fuck. Shit. Yeah, she was humped.

The dwarves were shouting.

Didn’t matter what they said. They weren’t escaping this without a fight. Without Gandalf. Where the fuck was Gandalf?

The Goblin king yelled something threatening.

Then everyone was moving at once.

Goblins rushed forward into the group, grabbing at weapons and roughly shoving the Company around as they were divested of packs and defenses. Nori grabbed her arm and ripped her sideways, just as Fíli stepped to where she had been and was disarmed. Before she could look up, or find out what was happening, another hand wrenched her the opposite direction, shredding her jeans and her knees on the boards of the platform.

They were trying to keep her safe.

No, they were trying to keep her hidden.

And that realization just scared her more. If the dwarves -- these dwarves -- these bastards who regularly threatened her, were hiding her, what the hell would the Goblins do when they eventually found her?

Had Galadriel grabbed that vision for accuracy not hyperbole?

Yeah.

She was so hopelessly humped.

There wasn’t time for the panic attack she wanted to drop into, so Frey bit her lip and clenched her fists and focused on how much her knees hurt. Focused on all the boots around her. Those were Nori. Those were Bofur. The pair over there was probably Thorin.

Thorin. Jackass. Useless awful royal assbutt.

She latched onto anger and dug in her mental heels.

The dwarves were talking again.

The goblins were yelling.

Thorin’s boots started to walk forward. Then Óin was moving instead.

Anger was good.

The engine in her brain finally started firing again. She glanced to the other side. Kíli’s boots. Ori’s boots.

And then Fíli’s boots. Still with tiny axes. The goblins hadn’t noticed them. But Fíli couldn’t reach down to grab them without being obvious about it.

“ _Youllhavetospeakup_. _Yourboysbrokemytrumpet_!”

It took half breaking Nori’s thumb to get him to let go of her arm. She crawled through their legs while the focus was on the healer.

The king yelled again.

And then Bofur was talking.

She pressed two axes into Fíli’s hand, and glanced up long enough to see his confused nod, then turned to get the others to Kíli.

The goblin king screamed enormously, their captors flinched, and she caught Bofur by the thighs to keep him from tripping over her.

“ _Bringupthemangler_! _Bringupthebonebreaker_!” She saw Thorin’s boots start to move. This had to be what she thought it was. It just had to be.

Which meant Thorin was about to fuck them all over by announcing his presence. Noble protective jackass. He was about to step forward and shout. Frey shook her head frantically, trying to reach his coat. He could stab her for it later. They needed to dodge Azog. Had to. She did not want to do that boss fight.

“ _Startwiththeyoungest_.”

“Fuck.” She lunged, ready to wrestle Thorin to the ground if that’s what it took.

The King was pointing at Ori, the goblins were moving to grab him. She was stretching to reach the king of self sacrifice and stupidity.

But instead of Thorin’s pronouncement, she heard Bofur yell. A hand closed on her arm, pulled her to her feet and out of the protection of the circle of dwarves. She was flung down on the platform in front of the goitered sack of a goblin king.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo hurt.

His side, his wrist, his head.

His heart.

His hands were scratched up and his ankle twinged under pressure.

But he was alive.

And since the last thing he remembered was the horror in Bofur’s face, Bilbo was going to take whatever cold comfort he could find. Starting with: he was alive.

It was silent, wherever he was. Perfectly quiet and perfectly black. With his hand directly before his eyes he still couldn’t see it was there. Bilbo shuddered, wishing all at once for a dwarf’s incredible vision as well as their stone sense and courage. But he had none of that.

Belatedly he remembered, and reached for his little sword.

Fíli would have laughed that he had forgotten about it for so long. Except, it wasn’t on his belt. That was not good. Not at all. He knew he was properly pathetic with it, in spite of the prince’s efforts, but it would have been better than nothing. On hands and knees he crawled in the darkness, searching and feeling nothing but stone and loose pebbles outside the thick patch of mushrooms he had awoken amongst.

He looked up, but the bright points of the torches were tiny. How Bilbo had survived the fall was a mystery he planned not to think about. Climbing up was out of the question.

But the dwarves had been talking about the Misty Mountains these last few days. They had been talking about all the old cave systems and how deep and labyrinthine they were. Maybe there was no hope for him down here. Maybe he would die in this forgotten corner of these miserable mountains. Or maybe he could find a path through it and he could breathe fresh air again.

He hoped that it would be the latter.

The blasted dwarves would never let him forget this if they heard. He’d fallen off another cliff, and lost his bloody sword to boot. Hopefully he could find a path back out of the mountains on the western slope. With luck there might be an elven patrol nearby and he could get somewhere safe before he found another way for his softness to get him killed.

He closed his eyes, though it made no difference in the dark. He really was of no help to his friends.

A whisper of sound broke the calm of the air.

Bilbo recalled the twist of concern that Thorin had shown when talking about the goblins. Thorin. Oh dear. Bilbo looked up, as if he could see where the dwarf had gone. As if he could help. Thorin had not said it, but he had been worried about the high pass, about their safety. And now maybe Bilbo was the only one left alive. Perhaps he ought to be thanking Freya for shoving him towards a possible splattery death. The others had all been in the clutches of the horde of foul pale monsters when he fell. They could be dead for all he knew. Killed and eaten and lost. He could have lost Tho -- the dwarves -- already.

No.

No that couldn’t be. If Bilbo Baggins, more grocer than burglar, useless and a burden, was still alive then surely his indefatigable dwarves were as well.

If his dwarves were above him, still in the hands of goblins, he should help them.

Ought to.

Wanted to.

He wanted to take up a sword and charge the goblin army and take back his dwarves and save Thorin.

But there was nothing he could do. His only weapon was gone. He figured that the pull at his hip he had felt just after landing in the goblin cage had likely been it being snatched. Fat lot of good that knowledge did for him now. He hadn’t even tried to keep it. He was no warrior, just a burglar, and a poor one at that. And hadn’t he been told to take his leave of them?

His chest ached bluntly at the memory.

He had never followed the officious lout’s orders before, but this time he planned to obey.

He would leave and let the warriors deal with the warrior’s work.

With a soft _humph_ he got to his feet, pocketing a few handfuls of stones.

It wouldn’t do for him to be totally unable to defend himself. Not that he expected to be able to put his missiles to use since he couldn’t see, but it kept him from hearing a voice berate him. It was a voice that sounded remarkably like a certain dwarven lummox.

Bilbo nodded and started edging away from the mushroom patch. He slid his toes over the ground, checking for dangers. So he moved very slowly.

Not more than five steps away, his foot touched something yielding. It was too cool to be alive, too warm to not have been recently and squished frightfully under his toes.

The goblin.

The one that she had thrown over with him.  

Which meant it so easily could have been him lying in a puddle of his own intestines. He shuddered and shook, and clapped a hand over his mouth to take back his control.

He gagged at the wet squelching noise as he lifted his foot.  He dragged his foot over the cold stone again and again, trying to get as much off as he could, but not brave enough to touch his foot with his hand.

So he stepped over the splattered corpse, and continued.

First there was just a wall, and as he followed its line, he began to panic that it was a closed space he had landed in, not part of the caves, and that his only hope would be to climb all the way up the way he had come down. Thankfully, he found a tunnel.

Anything was better than trying to go up.

When the tunnel was narrow, he kept a hand on either side, feeling for side passages, and trying to decide if it was good that the floor was sloping ever downwards.

He tripped over stones, snagged his toes on sharp rocks, blessed his hardy feet, and continued to walk.

Why had he ever thought he was fit to go on an adventure? This wasn’t just a question of missing supper. He shivered, alone in the dark. He was hardly able to survive even with his dwarves protecting him. Without them, it was certainly hopeless.

He would have sat down right then to have a cry, but for the thought that his mother would never approve of such maudlin self-indulgence. She had taken on plenty of adventures and come out the other side with a smile on her face. And while he was no match for his mother, he didn’t want to shame her. He knew he would hear about in the afterlife if he did.

He kept walking.

He tripped again.

A bassy chime caught his attention. Instinct as much as curiosity bent him over to grope about and find the source. It was cold, and metal, and round. Into his pocket it went. He was supposed to be a burglar after all.

At first he thought it was just his eyes wishing for it, longing for enough light to see what lay ahead. But as he travelled further and further down into the mountain, he grew certain. There was a light ahead. It was pale and otherworldly, not the sunlight he wanted to see, but anything would be better than the dark that pressed so close around him.

Step by sliding step he approached, terrified at the chance of finding more goblins, shaking at the prospect of being captured. The only sound he heard was a faint lap of water.

There was a lake.

And Bilbo couldn’t swim.

In the pale glow he could see far enough to know he could not cross it. He could see the outcroppings of stone and walls of the cavern that showed tunnels and crevices to give him hope, but they weren’t where he could go. The lake had cut them off from him.  

There hadn’t been another tunnel on the path. He hadn’t felt one. This was the only hope.

And all because he was a hobbit, he couldn’t get out. He heard memories in his mind of the dwarves offering to teach him to swim after that day at the river. He had slipped, and been dragged, soaked and shaky, to the banks by the princes. They had eventually extracted the confession of his ignorance. But he had convinced them to swear, thanks to a gift of pipe weed, to keep quiet about it. So he hadn’t learned to swim. He hadn’t wanted to admit it to Thorin. He hadn’t wanted to make a fool of himself in front of the dwarf.

If only he had been a bit bolder then, he would be able to get out of this dark hole now.

Out came one of the stones from his pocket, and with a soft curse, he hurled it towards a large stone jutting from the water. It bounced with a clink, then splashed into the lake. He threw another and another. His aim was still sure.

Clink. Splash.

Clink. Splash.

Again and again, exhausting his frustration and emptying his pockets. With the last stone in hand he cursed anew, but it never followed the rest.

“Does it want to play a game?” He jumped at the sudden inquisitive voice behind him, “It has a good arm, precious. Does it want to play with us?”

 ****  


* * *

 

“Kíli, ishi-mâ.” That was all Fíli had to say. Kíli glanced, saw Nori helping to keep Frey hidden and joined their efforts. It wasn’t going to last. Not a chance. Not if they couldn’t find a way to break free of the ranks of goblins shepherding them over bridges and pathways, forcing them deep into the caves that made up Goblintown.

It really wasn’t going to work if she kept trying to stand up.

He was going to have to talk to his brother about his need to save idiots from themselves after they got through this. This was hardly the first time he had insisted on trying to save someone with a death wish. Usually it worked out, but this was a lost cause if she didn’t keep her damned head down.

Somehow, he and the others kept her from standing up. Somehow, none of them managed to provoke the goblins into skewering them. Somehow, they made it through song and taunt. They managed to keep her hidden as they were disarmed.

He caught Dwalin’s eye and the guard nodded. His uncle was being held back from doing anything rash.

Two axes were pressed into his palm, and he jumped at it. Freya was already crawling away, already beyond his grasp.

The goblins boiled over at Bofur’s stalling tactics, and the king thundered. Kíli shifted his weight to loan some support to the scribe who was starting to shake, still waiting for a chance to start a daring escape and counter attack.

Instead it got worse.

One moment he and Fíli and Nori were shielding Freya from the goblin’s attention, trying to keep them from seeing her hiding on the ground.

Then the Goblin King turned and pointed to Ori.

“Start with the youngest one!”

Ori leaned farther into him, trying to get away but not having any way to do so.

His Uncle was already moving to gain the King’s attention, to protect their youngest member. Of course he was. Thorin would never let one of his Company suffer more than he did.

Before he could, Bofur shouted.

Two kings spun to look. So did every other set of eyes in the vicinity.

“You want someone to play with? Take this, then.” And the dwarf reached back, grabbed Frey by the arm and hauled her out of the protection of the circle. Kíli felt his fingers catch on leather as he latched onto his brother without thinking. She hit the ground, cursing as two goblins lunged forward.

Kíli tightened his arm, hoping Fíli could keep his calm. He knew what Fíli and Nori had done to keep her from following them, what they had done to keep her alive. But they were going to get out of this, and the two of them trying to charge the goblins now was going to do more harm than good.

He would think about what had prompted Bofur after they escaped.

A strangled scream sounded from behind the goblins.

He felt a twinge of reproach. At least in part, this was their fault.

This wasn’t going to be good.

Freya was pulled up to her feet and shown to the disgusting crowned goblin by the ugly creature that had a hand caught in her hair. She wrenched, and her bun came apart. Before she could get away, it caught the end of her braid and lifted, keeping her on her toes, just outside of arm’s reach. She couldn’t fight back. There was a scuffling sound and muffled shouting from the company around them, but Kíli was too preoccupied with his brother’s wide eyes to know what caused it. Distantly, he was aware that Ori was in a similar position, half wrapped around Nori.

The ex-thief was as likely to be livid over the girl as he was over the threat against his brother. Either way, the two were about to snap.

“Don’t get yourself killed, Fí. Don’t be an idiot. That’s my job remember? You can’t do anything to help right now. We have a bigger problem.” Kíli whispered when her obscenities got louder and his brother tried to advance. Fíli exhaled a fraction of the violent energy he was steeped in, allowing Kíli to turn and watch.

She had no sense of self preservation. Less than him, and he’d heard about that lack in a few dozen lectures from Thorin and his mother.

With all the goblins staring at her, he found Dwalin’s eyes and in quick iglishmek, asked about a plan. There was a chance that with their captors distracted by her antics they would be able to break free. But Dwalin signed no, and for Kíli to wait for a signal. He looked back to Freya.

She still couldn’t reach to hit her captor, but had found a way to resist. Her hands were clutching the goblin’s forearm and slowly pulling his claw from her hair. They should have used a bigger goblin. She was succeeding. The fat king was watching it with delight.

Kíli grimaced at it. That was worse than if they just had her head off.

Nothing good would come out of that look. A prolonged life, generally a mercy, would be a hell if it was spent in the goblin’s control. Better than orcs, but not by much. He noticed the guilt from his brother and shifted the axe in his hand to a throwing hold.

He had always been the better shot. He also was willing to take the shot.

The goblin snarled at her, flecks of spit shooting through the air. She hissed back at it. Kicked it in the leg. Pulled her head in the opposite direction and left the goblin with a handful of hair and a ruined braid. Then she stomped it in the knee hard enough to put it on the ground.

She was shaking. That was obvious, even from behind the mass of dwarves and goblins between him and where she was.

A second goblin reached for her and she slapped his hand away before hissing at it. The goblin, the guards, the Company, and Freya, turned to look at the fetid king.

The king laughed and pointed his skull-capped sceptre in her face.

Freya smacked it aside and spat at him. He just laughed louder.

“And why did you bring this with you?”

None of the dwarves said a word.

“ _Heygoiterface. Dontlookatthem. Lookatmeinstead. See? Hihowyoudoing? Imalreadyfuckedhere. SoImjustgonnatryandpulla_ Bilbo _seeifIcantalkuntilthewizardgetshisassdownhere. Imnotascuteasheis. Buthey. Dontknowwhereheis. Itsaproblem. Mighthavekilledhim. AndwowbutIhopethewizardisntlate._ ”

The king was staring at her with the same annoyed confusion everyone directed at her.

“What are you?”

She coughed and recoiled as the king leaned in and the sack of flesh swung to brush against her.

“ _Ohhhhhhhhhhmyyyyyygodddddddd. Thatsdisgusting. Withthegoiterandtheopensoresandthesmell. Motherofgod. Thesmell. Itsworsethan_ Bree.”

The guard reached for her again and she turned, slapped its hand once, twice, thrice, as it tried to get ahold of her packs. She’d kept them all.

“ _Stopthat_.” she slapped at reaching claws again, “ _Stop. Youreuglybutyourelittle. Icantakeyou.  And -- motherofcockstop -- ifIthinkaboutthisIm -- stopit -- gonnapuke -- stopit!_ ” It growled at her and she screamed right back. It stepped forward and she slapped it across the face. As it clawed towards her again, she went insane. She started pummelling it with flappy-armed blows as she shrieked, “ _stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit_!”

Like he’d noted before: she seemed to have a death wish.

Then she rammed it, and it tumbled off the edge.

Everything went silent. Well, after the goblin’s cry cut off with a wet splat, it went silent. She huffed in a few breaths and stared over the edge.

The obese boil started to chuckle, and the horde joined him. Laughter wasn’t supposed to sound like that. Threatening. Nauseating. Kíli didn’t like it.

“I think we have a game to play with you.”

Fíli lunged a bit, but caught himself with a sharp exhale. Nori had to be stopped by Ori and Fíli. The goblins grabbed her arms and this time she couldn’t get out. It was a reflection of what the Company had faced with Bilbo and the trolls. But there was no offer this time, no banter and threat. They weren’t going to be asked.

But as he had then, Thorin stopped it. He yelled and took a step forward, pulling away from Dwalin and Óin to make himself obvious.

“Offering to trade dwarf?” the king said as he spun. Then he saw who it was and boomed a great taunting laugh into the air, “Well, well, well. Greetings, King under the Mountain, ohhh but wait. I’m forgetting. I’m the only one with a mountain here. Which makes you nobody, really.”

“ _Hey! ImprettysureIknowwhatshappeningoverthere! Dontdoitugly. Dontdothat. Dontyoudoit! Nosendingmessages. Nocreepytinygoblin! Nozipline! Staylookingatme_.”

“Thorin son of Thrain. I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head. Just a head mind, not the rest.”

“Goblin! You goblin. _Youfatuglypieceofshit. Dontlookatthemajestictwerp. Lookatme_.”

Both kings were ignoring her yelping and escape attempts.

“An old enemy.”

“ _Motherfuckinghell_.”

“A pale orc astride a white warg.”

“ _Mememememememe. Lookatme. Dontyoufuckingdoit_.”

Thorin stayed silent, glowering at his enemy, but most of the Company was turned to Freya, who was still spectacularly captive, and nodding at them in return, eyes ferine.

“Send word to the pale orc. Tell him I have found his prize.”

“ _Cocksuckinghell_.” Kíli followed her look to his brother, who was staring in dawning horror as she nodded more, “ _Wereallfucked_.”

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me? Pa -- pla -- play what?”

“The game!” It crooned, crawling over the rock and into better light. It was pale and spindly and hunched. It moved primally and the wide bright eyes in its gaunt face seemed almost comically innocent.

Bilbo looked out to the target rock and down to the small stone in his hand.

Innocent expressions didn’t always signify a kind heart. And how could anything kind live in such a terrible place? But this last stone was too small to cause any damage to the thing, so Bilbo repeated.

“Game? Like, like what I was doing just now?”

“Yes yes yes. We finds the stones and throw them at the rock.” It perched atop a boulder above his head like a huge plumeless bird and rocked back and forth in its eagerness.

“Uhhh.”

This wasn’t the time to play a children’s game. He needed to get out of these dratted tunnels, away from these accursed mountains and depart for good from the thrice damned suicidal Company. He did not have time to play a game with some wretched goblin runt.

“Maybe it doesn’t like us precious.” The voice was so different that Bilbo whipped his head about to look for the newcomer. But the skulking thing was the only one there, hunched farther than before, starting to snarl, “Nasty little creature. Maybe it’s just here to hurts us precious. Shouldn’t let it. Shouldn’t trust it.”

Bilbo had opened his mouth to babble something about not being there to hurt it, but pulled up short when the thing turned and answered itself.

“It’s just a little thing. Can’t hurt us, no it can’t precious.”

“What is it then? Not a goblin, no, no it’s not. _Gollum_. _Gollum_.” Bilbo flinched at the hacked cough and reached for a sword that wasn’t there. Oh, he was just not cut out for these things.

He was so distracted he didn’t notice it had come closer and he shrieked when it spoke just beside his ear.

“What is it precious? What? What?”

“I, uh… I’m a Bag - Baggins. I’m a Baggins.”

“A Baggins?”

“Yes, I’m Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”

“Does the Bagginses like games?”

“No! No games.” It interrupted itself with a snarl, “Doesn’t like it. Doesn’t trust it. Kill it. Eats it.” Bilbo’s heart seized up as he heard that and stumbled backwards shouting out a reply.

“No! No! I like games! I want to play the game! Let’s play.” The bright eyed one was back as soon as Bilbo spoke. Between the two, this was who he wanted to speak to. So, he continued, “But if I play will you help me? After that is? Would you help me find a way out? You see, I’m not supposed to be here.”

For a moment Bilbo wasn’t sure which side of the creature was watching him or if it wasn’t some third facet to be met and avoided. Eventually it’s appraisal concluded and the dark voice turned to speak in its gravelly tone.

“If the Baggins _wins_ , we show it the way out. But the Baggins has to win first.”

“And - and if -- if I don’t?”

“Then we eats it.”

And oh dear but it was quite serious about that. Why oh why did every confounded creature he met on this blighted adventure seem to be set on eating him? Hobbits were all for eating, yes, but quite entirely opposed to being eaten themselves. Bilbo shoved his hand into his pocket, very much wishing that he was even a fraction the warrior that his dwarves were. They would never have found themselves here, about to be eaten if their aim faltered. They wouldn’t have lost their sword. They wouldn’t have run out of stones.

His fingers, wishing there was some large stone hiding in his pocket he could use in his defense, closed instead on the bit of metal he had found in the tunnel.

Thinking about it now, it was probably a ring.

Perhaps he could bargain the ring for a safe escort to an exit. Then he could skip this game playing business.

It would just be payment.

Easy.

Bilbo looked at the thing as it coughed another phlegmy _gollum_ and thought it was impossible. There was no way this sickly twisted thing was going to trade some scrap of metal when there was a chance at a proper meal.

It must not get to eat much. The only things here would be any fish in the lake and…

Bilbo straightened, “No. No. I’m sorry, I can’t let you eat me, but I can show you where there was a great big goblin. You could eat all of it. Its close by.”

It _gollumed_ again. Narrowed its eyes.

It nodded.

Not that Bilbo trusted for a second that it wouldn’t attack him given the chance. He just didn’t have any other choice. So he knelt on the lake shore and gathered up a few stones.

“What… uh… what is the game?”

Gollum -- he couldn’t help calling it that, it kept making that awful noise -- hurried over and pointed across the lake. Bilbo could only faintly see the bit of rock in the water. But Gollum threw. Clink. Splash.

And it started laughing.

“If the Bagginses misses, we wins. And if the precious misses the Baggins wins.”

He huffed air through his nose, resigned, “Fair enough.”

Clink. Splash.

Well, that was one.

Two, three, four and five went well for both of them.

Six clinked twice before splashing, and for a moment the hungry glint in Gollum’s eyes lit up the cavern and Bilbo thought he was about to be attacked.

But the nice one came back.

They passed ten each. Fifteen.

Bilbo wasn’t sure how long they had been down there, and they weren’t speaking at all, so the silence pressed around him, interrupted only by the sound of stones hitting, the scrape of sand and gravel when they reached for new ones, and the ever present echo in his mind of the creatures first bargain.

So Bilbo’s world was reduced to Scrape. Clink. Splash. _We Eats It_.

He was, understandably, rather tense, and thought at first he was imagining the scent of forthcoming attack in the air. But after he threw successfully a twenty-seventh stone, there was a frustrated shriek and a crash.

Gollum launched himself forward.

Its long grasping hands were incredibly strong as they closed around Bilbo’s throat. Bilbo managed to suck in one last breath as he saw what was coming. He grappled and kicked and fought to get away. The broken rocks beneath him were cutting into his back, and the little light in the cavern was dancing with bright flashes of light as the world closed in around him.

The hissing, snarling, vicious face above him with its gappy teeth tucked over its upper lip had no sympathy, and Bilbo didn’t have the strength to get away.

A voice that sounded too much like his dwarf’s was laughing gently at his naivety for having trusted this thing at all when Bilbo ran out of air.

The darkness closed over top of him.

The last thing he saw was a triumphant open maw.

 

* * *

 

They were lucky that Goblins were stupid enough to taunt and sing at them instead of proceeding directly to all the torture and beating and eating of them that they were going on about.  If they’d actually gotten it started, the lot of them would be dead already. It was almost more annoying to have to hear about it.

That was a terrible thought.

But this was a terrible day that would probably end in terrible deaths for at least a few of them before they managed to escape. Kíli wasn’t that worried about his mind wandering into inappropriate commentary.

For now, they were getting a recital and a bit of a play.

Well, she was having a less benign time. After shoving her back and forth a few times she had tried to get away. It hadn’t worked, but she managed to kick one of them in the crotch. And then the face when it fell down. Now they were pointing their weapons, but not getting closer before the arrival of the much ballyhooed devices of pain and torture.

Thorin was still standing at the front of the group, as if he could glare the goblin king into submission.

Dwalin was as close as he could be without occupying the same space, and looked ready to take on the entire population to be able to get them to safety.

No longer burdened with keeping Freya hidden, he and Fíli and Nori had blinked and gestured and signed their way to a short plan. It wasn’t much. The goblins had the rest of his blades, but he had two of Fíli’s axes at least. Her retrieval of them had been a windfall. They’d do in a pinch until he could get to the pile of weapons they had stolen.

Now they just needed an opportunity.

Kíli heard the screech from a goblin and spun to see a sword clatter from its hands. They were picking through their weapons and packs like wolves over a kill, but something had scared them all back. A huge lumpy goblin bent over, out of sight, and rose with something caught on the end of a spear.

The company went still as they saw an elvish dagger dangling by the scabbard's ties.

He thought at first that he imagined the breathy “Bilbo,” that labelled it. Then he turned and saw his uncle’s face. Thorin was looking wildly over the group, searching, and failing to find the hobbit amongst them. His face fell as he realized that he was not there.

Dwalin set a hand on his shoulder.

Kíli hadn’t seen their burglar since that first platform. Since he had landed on the others while he and his brother had tried to kill the goblins attacking Ori. He had thought the hobbit was still with them. He couldn’t have gotten away in the middle of a horde. But Kíli hadn’t seen him. Not since Bofur had snagged him and pulled him close. He flicked a look to Bofur, who was staring furiously at Freya. Which made no sense. She, though, had gone pale, and her expression was pained as she muttered too quietly to hear and gaped at the blade while it was paraded in front of the King.

“And why do you travel with Elvish Blades, Hmmmmmm?”

Before any in the company could answer, could reclaim their wits, there was a second shriek, and Kíli caught a glimpse of his uncle’s found weapon in the air before it landed, half out of its sheath and glowing a steady blue.

“I know that blade! It is the Biter! The Cleaver!”

The goblins boiled over like ants and the world changed from taunts and awful songs to screams and harsh whips. There would be no escaping this unless something drastic happened. He heard an execution command split the air.  Kíli crashed into his brother while dodging a blow, and they nodded as one.

First things first.

They needed swords.

The axe buried easily in the skull of a goblin and Kíli kept it there to steer the dying goblin as a shield.

“Nori!”

He saw the thief glance, but couldn’t delay to wait and see more. There was a goblin pinning his uncle down, blade held high, and Dwalin was buried under three more. He threw at the same moment as Fíli. He had always been the better shot, but today they both threw true.

The goblin slumped over at once.

Then a blast of light brighter than any lightning or firework he had seen burst in the air and everyone, goblin or dwarf, was blown off their feet.

He didn’t need to hear Gandalf’s order twice.

With a wrench, he pulled the axe from his goblin shield’s head and rushed for the weapon pile, hurdling the goblins in his way. His brother’s twin swords were first and he tossed them over. Now guarded, he slung quiver and belt back in place, snagged two more blades of unknown ownership and began calling for others as he heaved weapons at them. Thorin had Orcrist in hand felling two goblins to a swing and wresting Balin from beneath another. Dwalin was at his back, and shouted his thanks when Kíli tossed him Grasper and Keeper. Ori snatched Dwalin’s warhammer and immediately knocked a towering beast of a goblin off the edge. Company members swarmed to him, arming themselves and rushing to join the rest until the pile was gone and the group was headed back over the bridge following Gandalf’s bright staff.

“Nadadith! Come on!” Fíli shouted, knocking another goblin into the dark. He was holding the bridge, waiting for Kíli to join them.  Snatching a handful of the arrows from the ground, he abandoned the rest -- he’d make more after they got out -- and followed.

The claw that caught his leg came out of nowhere.

He crashed to the ground, and it was on him. It was all drool and sharp teeth straining to reach him and merciless hands digging into his shoulders and holding him down.

“Iklifumun Nadad!”  Fíli yelled, and by the sound, was crossing back through the stream of goblins to help. Probably best. His sword had fallen, and if he let go of the goblin’s arms, it would have his throat torn out before he could grab the blade.

The rest of the company was too far ahead to help.

Fíli had been forced to abandon the bridge to come to his aid.

The two of them needed to catch up before they were cut off entirely.

So he just needed to resolve this latest development.

Maybe he could headbutt it.

It bared its teeth and drooled.

Maybe not.

Instead of headbutting, and instead of Fíli reaching him, the side of the goblin’s head crumpled beneath a hammer’s blow.

And Freya shoved the now very dead goblin off to help him to his feet.

“ _ThanksforleavingmebehindyouDick! Comeon!_ ” She looked feral. There was a one handed hammer in her right hand and Bilbo’s little sword in the other. And she still, Mahal only knew how, had all of those packs on her. She pointed, “ _Growabrain_ Kíli! _Letsgo_!”

He started cutting through the last of the goblins still alive on the throne platform.

She was somewhere behind him.

They reached Fíli.

And then there was just running.

And killing goblins.

Lots of goblins.

They traversed bridges and outcroppings and stairs and ladders and suicidal jumps over crevasses and goblins were swarming over them at every turn.  

He had killed more of them than he could count by the time they had reached the others. There were still more. He could see Thorin and Dwalin at the front with Gandalf, clearing a path with the experience of a lifetime of war. He and Fíli and Freya were at the end, and he was nearly out of arrows. He was only firing at the archers ahead of them now. It was all he could do to help keep them from being overwhelmed.

Gandalf let out another blast of light with his staff and they were able to get a lead on their pursuers.

Kíli turned at the sound of a yelp and a flurry of incomprehensible screaming to see a goblin holding Frey by the braid, towing her down a side path. He moved to go back and help. She had saved his life before. He shouldn’t just leave her behind again.

Fíli hadn’t noticed yet and was still running forward with the rest. He shouted for Fí to guard his return, and didn’t wait for an answer before he ran. The few goblins in the way were easy enough to dispatch.  

She looked up as she flailed, trying to hack at the goblin. She saw Kíli coming and shook her head vehemently, still yelling.

He continued in spite of the goblins closing the path behind him.

With an exasperated groan and a twist, she slashed the bright blue blade up, and cut off the braid without hesitation. Freed, she rushed for her other weapon.

Kíli put an arrow through her former thwarted captor’s throat as she snatched her small hammer from the ground, and they hurried to catch the rest. He shoved her towards Fíli who had started making his way back to them, and saw him double-take at the close cropped hair. He locked onto her arm all the same, and pulled her along. Not that it lasted long. As soon as a new wave of attackers hit them, she pulled away, and he had to redraw his second sword.

He had already fired his last arrow before the pack of goblins crashed into them from above. Kíli hit the post of the platform wrestling with a great beast of a goblin. Using every dirty trick Dwalin had ever shown him, he got away and skewered it. He climbed to his feet and swept up with his blade. The largest of them was killed in a splatter of ichor as he faced down the others near him.

He knocked off another with a kick and turned to see Fíli and Frey pressed back to back in a swarm of attackers. Blood was dripping down his brother’s swords he cut through anything in reach. The glow of the elvish blade was pock-marked by the blood on it, and was wielded with less grace than in the hand of the hobbit it belonged to, but paired with merciless swings of the hammer, Frey was holding them back. It wasn’t an elegant thing, but she was moving counter to Fíli, guarding him with effective, if haphazard, swings.

As Kíli cut through the enemy to reach them, he caught a glimpse of her slamming the hammer into another face.

Kíli reached them and the tide turned. The last half dozen goblins fell. Fíli caught her by the arm and dragged her to him to check the weeping cut across her shoulder blade. She yanked free and swept a hand over the blood on his cheek and temple, nodding at the small cut she found.

Then she flicked him, directly over the little gash.

“ _Stopalmostdying_.” She snapped.

And for a moment they just... glowered at each other.

Making a note to mock his brother for this after they got out of the cave, he gave them both a jarring push to get them running again. There were more goblins coming. The Company was still in sight for the moment, but wouldn’t be for long.

Kíli pulled a full quiver from a corpse and they ran again.

They got there just in time to be cut off by the goblin king himself.

“You thought you could escape me?”

Frey shoved Kíli closer to the center of the bridge while Gandalf faced the colossally foul creature. He kept a nocked arrow trained on the goblins at their rear, and watched her dragging Ori, then Fíli to the middle as well. Gandalf was challenging the monstrous goblin. Frey pulled the rope off her shoulder and started lashing it to the post. Fíli had ignored her request and moved to defend her from the goblins that were edging ever closer to the Company. By the look his brother threw over his shoulder, neither of them understood what she was trying to achieve.

But they weren’t going to question it now.

The Goblin king howled in pain.

“ _Craponacracker_. _Pleaseletthiswork_.” She shoved rope at Ori and Bifur and Fíli. She threw an end at Kíli. Frey was rushing towards the others when there was a crack.

And the platform fell.

Nori caught her as she lost balance, pinning her to the wood with a length of rope in his hand.

It plummeted down and crashed and cracked and jarred his bones while it headed to the ground.

A loud cry of relieved pain escaped his throat when it stopped, converting to a confused warble when Frey rolled over him and off the remains of the bridge, dragging Ori with her.

Then the Goblin king landed on them.

That wasn't pleasant.

But more goblins were coming.

Kíli stared up the walls as they swarmed down like roaches, wondering for half a breath how there could be so damned many of them.

But Thorin grabbed his arm and pulled.

They ran on, and the sight of sunlight had never been more beautiful. The bright glow drew them on as they hacked through the last of the guards near the gate, tumbling in disarray out the mouth of the cave.

Still they ran.

They only stopped when the the gate was out of sight.

The quiet of the forest was almost unnatural.

“Dori, Ori, and Bombur. We’re all here.” Gandalf counted them off. “And... her.” He muttered under his breath.

All of them were shaken and exhausted but at least they could finally take a minute to breathe.

But Kíli was only staring at Thorin.

His muscles were screaming and his stomach was growling at him, but he’d already checked that Fíli was mostly uninjured. They all were. A testament to the skill of dwarves. Scrapes and scratches but nothing serious. And in the stillness of the forest, all of his hurts were compounding and threatening to overwhelm the frantic energy of what they had just survived.

He was tingling with energy and pain.

But Thorin looked like he was staring at a corpse.

Kíli knew why before Gandalf noticed and yelled, “Where’s Bilbo? Where is our burglar?”

The anger was pointed at all of them, but it was Thorin’s head that dropped, his eyes that closed after a flickered look up at the mountain they had just escaped. Kíli looked as well, seeing the sun setting behind them, and lacking the will to feel cheered by the luck that had seen them through to the eastern side.

Bilbo was gone. Lost. Dead. Somewhere in the caves they had barely survived.

He saw Freya standing further up the slope, staring towards the mountains as well, shifting between her feet, and fidgeting with the elvish blade in her hand.

Kíli climbed back up to make sure she wasn’t injured. Bruises and cuts. The one on her shoulder had already stopped bleeding. Her hair was brushing her shoulders in a tattered line.

And as he watched, her feral determination was melting into fear.

“ _Nonononono. Comeon. Comeon._ Yavanna Mahal _someone. Youbetterhavehelpedhim. Youresupposedtoprotecthim. Hebetterbeokay. Comeon. Comeon_ Bilbo. _Whereareyou_?” She was whispering quickly

“What happened to him?” The wizard thundered.

Kíli stared past her at the others. They were silent

“I’ll tell you what happened!” Bofur shouted after a moment. “She killed him!”

Kíli looked between the miner and the girl, trying to make sense of the pronouncement.

“How’d you two even get in there with us?” Fíli asked. “You and Bilbo were outside the cave.”

“Her.”

“What?” That was Thorin’s deadly soft voice.

“She threw us in there with the goblins, but I had him safe with me. Then she grabbed him an’ threw him off the edge. It weren’t an accident. She pulled him away from me, and she killed him. ”

The Company was silent for a while, and Kíli wasn’t the only one watching her now. However, he was the only one who could see her terror. The only one who could see as she blinked back tears. The only one who heard her prayer-like murmurs, “ _Goddammityoucantbedead._ Bilbo please. _dontbedead. dontbedead. dontbedead. Comeon. Youreclever. Youreunarmedbutyourecleverasfuck. Youcandoit. Theresnowaytheyletyoudie. Getouthere. Comeon_ Bilbo.”

Something was wrong. Or missing. He knew no one expected him to think, but he hadn’t been raised second in line for an ancient throne without spending a few decades learning to think things through. Kíli didn’t understand one pebble in the mountain of events he was sorting through, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t what it looked like.

“That’s why ya handed her to them?” Nori yelled, pushing Bofur a few feet. “Do ya know what they woulda done?”

“Yeah, if someone was gonna get tortured an’ killed, I’d rather it be her than yer brother. And so would you, Nori!”

“No. _nonono. Thisistakingtoolong. Weareprettyclosetocanon. Thesuninsetting. Heshouldbeherealready. Heneedshelp. Ivegotta. fuckfuckfuck. Ivegotta -- Idontknow -- Ivegottagoback. Ihavetogogethim. Icanfindthepath. IthinkIcan. Icanfindhim. Hesnotdead. Notanoption. Soheisnt. Ijusthavetogofindhim_.”

She turned, and jumped to see Thorin and Bofur standing a step away. Kíli shifted uncomfortably. She’d helped Ori, helped him, saved his life if he was honest, protected his brother. If she had killed Bilbo though, Thorin was about to do what he had been threatening from the beginning. Courting unofficially or not, Thorin was going to kill her, and he didn’t think anyone was going to stop him.

Nori and Fíli and Bifur were standing behind him reluctantly. Gandalf was off to the side watching the mountain they had run down. The rest were down the hill watching this unfold.

Everything was going to hell again. So much for a chance to breathe.

Kíli was still standing next to her, and watching his brother’s conflicted expression.

The sword in Thorin’s hand was left over from their escape, but was no less a threat.

“ _LookIknow. Butyouhavetowait. Stabmeafter. Ineedtogogethimfirst._ ”

She lashed the sheath to her belt and slid in the elvish blade. “Bilbo.” She pointed back at the the mountains, staring at Bifur and gesturing, “Bilbo. Goblins. Me. Bilbo. We are follow. You? Erebor. Bilbo me are follow.”

She had gotten clearer since they had last played this game. Thorin looked over her shoulder towards the mountain, just a faint bit of hope declawing the murderous intent.

“Dwarves. Gandalf. Erebor. Me. Bilbo.” Thorin looked like he was about to charge the goblins alone. Frey extended her hands to block him, “ _No. No. No._ No Thorin. Me Bilbo. You no Bilbo. You Erebor.” She shook her head and stepped off her rock, down to his level, turning -- or, trying to turn him the other direction. “You Erebor. _Rightfuckingnowifyouplease_.”

“Iktriti-diya.” 

“And why should we do that Bif? I saw what she did!”

“Khama jalajubulai Gairurukhsgirîn. Ra kalakai khajami anbâr!” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Aktibi-hû.” 

Fíli caught Kíli’s attention again, and flicked his eyes between Thorin and Freya then up to the cave. _Oh_ , that was what he intended. Kíli opened his mouth to get there first, but wasn’t fast enough.

“I’ll go with her Uncle. We’ll find Bilbo and catch up.” Fíli announced.

She was shaking her head before Thorin could open his mouth and reject the plan.

“ _Nopenopenope_. No. No. Fíli. Azog. Thorin. Azog. Rivendell Fíli? Fíli please. Thorin Azog. Me: Bilbo. You: Thorin.” Her voice quavered.

Kíli and the others could only watch as Fíli’s face went wide, then collapsed, and finally hardened into resolution. He stepped closer, and spoke very clearly for her, “What you said - the words - to me at Rivendell? About Thorin and Azog? Is it now?”

“You spoke to her at Rivendell, irakdashat?” Thorin’s voice cracked, still caught up in the concern for their missing member, but got angrier as he heard more repetitions of the pale orc’s name.

“We will discuss that later, Uncle,” Fíli said dismissively.

And if the situation hadn’t seemed dire before, every dwarf recognized the severity of the situation now.

Fili continued without looking at the king. “Frey, Azog? Thorin?” he repeated.

He gestured towards the braid falling out of her shorn hair.

She nodded, motioning towards the hills above them. “Wargs. Azog. Orcs. _Illgoget Bilbo_. _IfuckedupsoIllgethimback_. You Erebor. We are follow. You Fíli? Thorin is no Azog.”

His brother stared at her for a moment, and Kíli quickly reviewed the snatch of conversation he had heard in Rivendell as well as the day long planning sessions they had taken on the road. Fíli only had to make eye contact. The surety in his gaze was enough.

Kíli shuddered as he signalled a confirmation. The exhaustion and pain of the last day was forgotten under the necessity of what they had to do now.

His brother finally turned, every inch the crown prince.

“Uncle, we’re about to be attacked by Azog.”

Frey started unhooking a pack, gesturing at Nori to come take it. Bifur had a firm hand on Bofur’s shoulder and was murmuring in low fast khuzdul. Explaining what he had heard in Rivendell no doubt. The others and Gandalf were gathering to run, waiting for the order when a long howl rent the air.

“No. No! Bilbo!” Frey spun, gasping, “ _Ihavetogogethim_!”

There was a blaze in Thorin’s normally icy eyes. Kíli was watching it, not sure he wouldn’t have to prevent some kind of rash charge. So he saw when his uncle made the choice. The light there was tamped down brutally, returning him to the dispassionate leader he so often was. He shut down the fear and the concern, and was already looking for defensible ground nearby.

Not that there was any.

Frey made it two steps up the hill before Fíli grabbed her by the pack and refused to let go.

“Out of the frying pan,” Bofur said tersely.

“And into the fire.” Gandalf continued.

“We run!”  Thorin ordered after he had surveyed the area once more.

Kíli watched his uncle while everyone else scooped up the last dropped packs and hoisted weapons. He lingered with his eyes up the slope for one moment longer, lips moving silently, before jogging to lead them.   

The forest shuddered with warg cries, closer and closer, and the company, now only thirteen, raced to outrun them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm......I think I'll just keep hiding under my rock and writing more.  
> I adore you. This is how I show it. By writing things like this. 
> 
> KHUZDUL:  
> ishi-mâ : help us  
> Nadadith : little brother  
> Iklifumun Nadad : dammit brother  
> Iktriti-diya : trust her  
> Khama jalajubulai Gairurukhsgirîn : Because she foresaw Goblintown  
> Ra kalakai khajami anbâr : And she tried to give us warning  
> Aktibi-hû : I know it  
> irakdashat : nephew


	10. Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we do what we must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) are my betas and my sounding boards and write much better things than me. 
> 
> Sorry it's been longer than I wanted. RL happened and I had to go to a wedding.  
>  Khuzdul is on hover and at the end. Not that there's much this time.

The thing. The creature. Gollum.

That face above him as the world faded into monochrome.

The stench of the cavern.

The feel of broken stones.

There were…. sounds. Muttered words and angry speech.

There was an argument.

He shivered.

He was freezing. After long minutes, he realized his clothes were soaked.

His pack was missing.

Bilbo turned his head carefully, still spinning and nauseous.

His vision cleared slowly, but he could see a faint shadow moving in dim light.

“‘S’not fair precious. We cheated precious.”

“It wasn’t cheating.”

“It was precious. We didn’t throw it right precious.”

“We can eats the Baggins. It was tricksy. Would have hurt us precious. Would have cheated us. Made us let it go without a bite of anything crunchable.”

“No. The Baggins wanted to play. We never get to play.”

Bilbo recalled pieces.

“We can eat the Baggins and the goblins. We know where it came from, we do. Where it fell. We can have them both precious.”

Bilbo trembled and remembered. Though his arms felt heavy and his head was swimming, he looked the other way. A short slope down to the water. Shallow water he hoped. And not far beyond, an opening in the cavern wall. A tunnel. And maybe, maybe his nose wasn’t tricking him, and the air on that side smelled fresher.

Blanching, he crammed his hand in his pocket for the last rock. The ring started to slip out, and fearing the noise it would make, he crammed it on a finger just before he forced himself to roll. The water was icy but mercifully shallow enough that he could struggle across the stretch to the bank. He heard the creature cry out when his head was above water, but could not stop. Nor worry. He crawled onto the shore and to his feet.

In just a few steps, he was tucked into a crevice along the tunnel wall, waiting to see if Gollum followed, and forcing himself to stay quiet.

He heard its furious panting and the slap of wet feet on stone. He recoiled, pulling tighter into the little gap and hoping against hope it would not see him in the almost lightless corner.

The feet drew closer, closer, Bilbo had stopped breathing, clutching the stone in his hand.

And they moved away with a faint whispered litany asking where he was.

He stayed there a long time.

He was cold and sick, but he waited until he was sure it was gone before he slid from between the rocks and began to creep down the tunnel. The creature had gone somewhere. Maybe whatever luck had kept it from seeing him would help him find an exit.

The world spun around him and he clung to the wall.

A few more burning breaths let it pass, and he stumbled onward.

Bilbo hadn’t thought farther than getting away from Gollum and out of the cavern with the lake. His feet were moving out of habit more than intention following the wet tracks from Gollum for as long as they were visible.

And then they weren’t.

They faded out just before a crossroads and Bilbo could only stare, mind too addled to think.

A horrible scream barrelled down the hallway and sent Bilbo ricocheting backwards.

“Nooooo! Where is it! Precious! Lost! Lost! Baaaaagginnnnns!”

He didn’t wait. Or think.

He just ran.

The sound came from one side of the crossroad, so Bilbo took the other, tripping and clumsy and harried. When he collapsed against the wall to heave up bile and choke on air, he was about to break down.

Its cries and pleas had finally faded. But Bilbo was lost. More than he had been before and he would not have believed that possible.

Never had he longed for home with such a passion. The quiet serenity of the Shire, even if it did lack the adventures his childish heart yearned after, was where he was meant to be. He let his head rest against the wall, resisting the need deep in his chest to lay down and wait for goblins and cave dwelling monsters to find him and end his misery.

It would be easier to simply surrender to his fate. No one would ever know how he fell. No one would ever tell his dwarves that he had lost his life without defending it.

And he was just so lost.

Except this tunnel glowed like the others did not. There was a soft glow of fire in one direction, and a faint bit of what Bilbo hoped more than anything was daylight in the other.

He crept towards it, restraining his own optimism. He sent silent pleas to the Valar that he would see the sun again, and moved the last steps around the corner to stare into the final chamber. A guardroom and an armory. Filled to bursting with raging goblins.

He whimpered. Or, he would have, but his throat was too raw to do more than release a pained exhale.

Miraculously, they had not seen him yet, and hands shaking, he took a cautious, silent step, retreating into the tunnel.

He heard a deep chiming clang and shook his head at a sudden shift in pressure.

Bilbo felt more than he heard the tone of the Goblin’s rumbling change.

They were staring right at him.

His throat released a horrified squawk and he could not explain what possessed him to respond as he did.

Bilbo dropped to his knees and grabbed back the ring that had slipped off his finger. It slid on, and he rolled sideways with a headache already on the rise.

And he cowered there, pressed against the wall, and wished he was braver.

But the claws and spears and arrows did not come.

Instead there was confused shouting and the goblins jerked to a halt, looking around and shoving each other.

“Where’s he gone?”

“What happened!”

“He was here!”

“He’s in the tunnel! Find him! Follow him!”

Bilbo uncoiled from his frightened ball and stood up, astounded. The goblins could not see him. He looked down. He could see himself. He was just as filthy and solid and present as he had ever been. So why…

His eyes tracked to his hand, and the queer gold ring he had hardly looked at yet.

But that was impossible. A magic ring? Just lying forgotten on the ground in a goblin cave?

Then another troop of goblins marched past him, and the butt of a spear clipped him in the arm. Its owner glanced, looked right at him, but did not respond beyond a grunt. Thank Eru for his poor bruised throat, else he would have shrieked for sure.

Bilbo snuck along behind the troop, dodging weapons and goblins alike, slipping through the crowd towards the door. He was almost there. He was almost back in sunlight at last, when a commanding voice brought the bustling activity to a halt. Not knowing what made him think staying longer with the foul things was even close to wise, he pressed against a blank stretch of wall, and listened to the sequence of growled commands in a black speech that Bilbo could not understand.

Fortunately, the goblins near him cursed and grumbled in Common.

“--stealing our prize--”

“--They killed our king, our people--”

“--don’t challenge the pale orc!”

“--Azog gets what he wants--”

“--should have killed Oakenshield when he had him!”

“--it’s still our prize--”

“--let him get away--”

“--we can get there faster--”

“--Azog is nearby--”

Bilbo could barely breathe. Not because his throat screamed in pain with each rush of breath, which it did, but because it seemed his chest was constricted too tightly to allow any air into his lungs.

Azog. Oh Eru. _Thorin_.

Which meant he was still alive. Which meant the others may be as well.

He had hoped they were of course, but it was another thing altogether to hear it.

He slid along the wall to where the was door cracked open. Just the feel of sunlight was enough to bolster his courage. And with a mighty wrench, he passed through, leaving most of his buttons on the floor of the cave. He didn’t look back.

Sunlight.

Dirt.

Grass.

_Trees_.

He got away from the cave, staggering down the slope until he could see it no more, and sat down on a log.

He slipped off the ring and shook his head.

Alright. Yes. The ring had hidden him from the goblins somehow. Which was good.

He felt...different… wearing it. But it had kept him alive. So he clutched it in a fist, and cast about for any sign that the others had escaped. It was a fool’s hope, but he needed it. There was no guarantee that they would have left through that gate, and a place so large would surely have dozens of exits.

Bilbo rolled his toes in the dirt and breathed as deeply as he could.

He coughed on the pain, which only made it worse.

Then he saw the shadows cast away from the mountain.

He was on the eastern slope. To go back, to go home, he would have to cross them again. Alone. And that sounded even worse.

There was the chance of his death and consumption, of course. Adventures seemed to involve that regularly. There was the chance he would not be able to find his way. There was his empty pack and his unarmed state to consider as well.

And while all of that was true, none of it was the reason he was looking to the East.

It was because going home alone meant abandoning the others. He had regretted leaving the moment he had exited that cave. He just hadn’t had the gumption then to turn around and upbraid the emotionally stunted misanthrope for his appalling comments. Bilbo wasn’t sure he had the courage to do so now to be honest.  

But if they had made it out of those caves, then, well, they would need all the help they could get.

He tweaked his nose.

Nope.

He had signed a contract, and hadn’t properly cancelled if before the floor fell out. And a Baggins didn’t go back on that. Even if they had signed to assist the most muleheaded, denigrating dwarf that their creator had ever brought to existence.

Yes, he had been leaving before, and that had been a terrible decision. He could almost thank Freya for forcing him to turn around, less so for that incident with the Goblins.  

Yes, Thorin had been more of an insensitive prick than usual during that fight. But it wasn’t actually all that far out of character. Kissing aside, Thorin had never once said a kind thing to him. Fortunately the rest of the company made up the difference between the king’s words and his actions.

Bofur and Bifur were his friends, and regularly did what they could to help him adjust to living on the road. Fíli had been as patient as possible helping him with his sword. Ori traded stories. He and Bombur had talked for days on end about food and family and comfort. The rest had accepted him as one of their own, which was a big step considering how reclusive dwarves could be.

He was not going to abandon them.

If this was one of his books he was sure the dwarves would come find him and there would be dramatic speeches and possibly some tremendously romantic kissing. He could just be swept off his feet by the drama of it all. Maybe he would even give a speech of his own.

Instead, he heard a warg howling.

He was on his feet at once. He didn't know what he was going to be able to do. Or how he was going to help. That didn’t matter.

He was going to be there for them.

He just needed to find them.

He filled his pockets with rocks. He slipped on the ring, grabbed two larger stones, and waited, ready to run.

Sure enough, a moment later, there were more howls.

And where there were wargs hunting, his dwarves must be nearby.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They were coming for them. For him.

Hunting him down.

And they had nowhere to go. The wargs had corralled and chased them to the edge of a great cliff. The few that his company had killed made little difference to the small army that was in pursuit.

He heard the wizard’s command and saw everyone rush to comply. Dwalin practically threw Ori into a tree when the scribe struggled to reach a handhold. Bifur and Bofur were already high into the branches. Óin and Glóin were clamoring up a trunk nearby.

Thorin counted once he found a perch.

Himself, twelve and a wizard.

Twelve.

His eyes strayed back to the ridgeline above the trees where the hobbit was lost.

Thorin knew he was at fault for the hobbit’s death as surely as if he had killed him with his own hand. Had he not driven him away, it would have been him that Bilbo had reached towards. He would have kept him safe. He would never have allowed anyone or anything to bring their burglar to harm.

But he could do nothing for him now.

Had he been alone, he would have returned to the caves and not come out again until he had their erstwhile burglar safely at his side. Had he been alone he would likely have abandoned the quest back in Rivendell to live in quiet comfort with the insufferably fussy, incredible creature.

Neither was an option now.

Bilbo was gone.

Azog was coming.

Azog was alive, and was coming, and in the torrent of anxious fear, that thought burned bright and clear. The answering thought was equally certain.

He wasn’t going to be alive much longer.

“Gandalf! _Callthegoddamneagles!_ _Calltheeaglesof_ Manwë! _Doitnow!_ ”

He would handle her after. Once they had defeated the enemy snapping at their feet, he would confirm that Bofur had spoken true. And if he had, he would kill her, as he should have at the first sign of risk.

Had he trusted his instincts, they would have been rid of her the first time she walked into their camp on the outskirts of the Shire. But he had tried to be generous as the world had never been to him. A mistake. The world did not care when a single life was lost. It did not care now that Bilbo was gone.

Thorin gritted his teeth and shoved the rising pain aside.

The tree he was on swayed under leaping attacks by the wargs.

Kíli was on the tree beside him, bow over his shoulder unused.

“Kíli!” He roared, “Shoot them.”

The look he got in return was split between agreement and exasperation. His nephew’s quiver was empty. Thorin reached for his own, and found it missing entirely; it had never been reclaimed in the goblin caves.

He had no plan, no escape for his kin and companions.

It had been almost a hundred and forty years since he had last seen the pale orc, but he felt it in his bones the moment the fell beast stepped into sight.

Had he not been warned, had he not expected to see the spectre of the enemy of his line, he may have leapt from the tree that moment, and wargs be damned. He had shifted his grip on Orcrist without thinking, preparing to drop. Bifur’s boot kicked his shoulder from the branch above.

“Nî astu sazrali lanzablâgu rukhsund, idmê!”

Thorin looked between the protesting warrior and the wargs. He looked at Azog, darkly chuckling in a deep, twisted impression of laughter.

There was no survival or escape for them in this fight. Surely it would be better to finish what he should have at Azanulbizar than to die in the jaw of a ravening nameless warg.  It would be better to let his last breaths have meaning after a lifetime of impotence in defense of his people.

“ _No! Verybad_ Thorin! _Youstayinthatgodforsakentree_!”

Azog gave an order and the wargs attacked with a new fury, tearing at branches and using their bulk to batter at the trunks. The tree beside his shook, trembled, swayed, and he could only watch as it tipped. Those still in it held as long as possible, leaping to another at the last moment with grunts of pain at the impact.

But Thorin had no time to check their health.

His tree rattled beneath his feet and scant seconds later he was taking a jump of his own, crashing into rough bark to the sound of the wargs’ continued baying.

They had no defense against this.

Thorin leapt into the last tree on the cliffside roaring. The tree he had been in tumbled off the cliff with a crack, narrowly missing him as it fell, and whipping into his branch as it passed.

Azog laughed.

The wargs fell back a moment to allow their masters time to draw near.  

It would not matter. This fight would not end so simply. Azog would never let him die so easy a death. Thorin stared at the creature that had killed his grandfather, that had harried his people, and slaughtered them on the fields of Azanulbizar. That he had failed to kill there.

Unwanted, his mind echoed his memory with others. All the failings of his life -- and there were many -- that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he examined them. For now it was just flashes of pain. Thror. Víli. The slums of Ered Luin. The Trolls. The stone giants. Bilbo.

The last thing he had said to the hobbit -- to his hobbit. He had called him useless, pointless, weak. A camp follower and a whore. He had died without ever hearing all the things Thorin had meant to say. The old sick feeling of failure oozed out from his chest and chilled him.

A gust of wind swayed the tree by several feet.

He could not get lost in guilt now. He had to proceed. He had to protect his Company, his kin. The onus of culpability would be borne later. Now he had to focus on the threat at hand.

He glanced below at the narrow jut of stone to which the roots still clung and cursed. He looked behind at the fall that awaited them.

Thorin would not die in a tree. He would not be killed by a fall after a lifetime in battle. If he was to fail here, it would be on his own terms. He could hear his nephews shouting above him, and her shrieking below him.

Then a flaming brand flew past him and bounced off an attacking warg.

The intolerable wizard was making himself useful at last. The distraction in Goblintown had been appreciated, but Thorin had been certain they would have found another way had he not arrived.

Now though, the air was filling with light and flame as pinecones were set ablaze and hurled aground. The dry pine needles lit easily, and a wall of flame quickly rose to protect them.

Fire was protecting him as it never had before.  

Though the original quandary remained. They still had no escape or plan to turn the tide of battle in their favor. Azog’s obsessive need to end the line of Durin remained. It could serve. The pale orc would insist on fighting him alone, seeking to see done what it failed to do before. Thorin shifted his namesake onto his arm properly, sneaking a glance at the others.

He would not fail again. In this if nothing else, he would find justice.

They were distracted, cheering for their temporary reprieve.

He glanced below to where he would jump.

Freya had climbed to stand on her branch, and stared up at him, shaking her head, stretching out to reach him, “No. Please. No. Thorin. No. No Azog.” Her voice barely carried to him over the crackle of fire and the whining of the wargs.

She had some gift of foresight. He would not deny that. But she used it to malicious effect. If he survived this act, he was going to kill her for what she had done.

But even so, Thorin would not waste this opportunity to avenge his grandfather and protect his ingadân.

“Fíli!” She shouted. His heir whipped about to look, and Thorin knew he had to go now before he was stopped.

He stepped.

The tree creaked.

Instinct made him clutch the branch.

The tree fell back, and for a moment, Thorin believed that it would not stop. That the last root would snap, that the rock holding it would betray them, and they would fall to an ignominious death. Instead it caught with a shuddering bounce, perilously dangling them over the gorge.

Stroking at the fur of the enormous white warg, Azog drew closer, framed by flames and cruelly spitting insults. He was going to watch as they fell. There was no need for the orc to do anything more to ensure their demise, and he was going to paint them with shame without another step. Their perch was doomed, and with it, their lives.

Thorin was boiling. He was shaking, trying to hold back the rage and hate and fear that slithered in his mind. He could not fail in this again. He would not. His kin would be furious, and even he knew that the action was foolhardy at best, but balanced against the prospect of surrendering to fate, he listened to the encouragement of his anger.

Very well.

If their fate was assured, then he could not deny himself the opportunity for vengeance.

He would face the pale orc once more.

“Fíli! Kíli! NO! _Keepyourassesinthetree_!”

Faster than he could hoist himself to standing, he saw his heirs charging down the trunk, blades in hand to challenge the enemy of their lineage. His own shout of denial did no more to slow them than hers had. He rolled his weight on top of the branch, about to move to their defense.

He could not let them stand alone.

The snap of the branch reverberated in his bones and it fell, dangling by a shred of wood and bark. Thorin stretched. Safety was out of reach. He could see the others on the tree in similar predicaments.

Ori fell, snatching Dori’s leg to avert a longer drop.

Dwalin was scrambling for purchase on the narrow limb he clutched.

The creaking warnings of the branches chilled his blood as he watched helplessly while the Company tried to follow and support the princes.

The princes. His sister-sons and heirs.

They had stepped onto the cliff, unbothered by fire and moving as one. Decades of training together were obvious as they moved to engage the orcs that charged them. Azog held back, staring over the fight towards Thorin, taunting and challenging him to join them.

Thorin could not watch this. He could not watch his beloved nephews fall in a fight that should be his. There was too much swelling in him not to though. Pride and fear battled, and Thorin could only stare. If they fell, it would be yet two more deaths in the tally of his life to weigh him down until his end, and for which he would be judged in death.

But for all his pain, he could not look away.

Kíli stepped out and ducked low, slashing his sword across the wargs side and dodging the orc rider’s blade. Fíli stood fast, and sunk one blade deep, ramming it through the beast’s jaw and out the top of its head. He had to abandon it to get away from the spear rushing towards his chest, but clipped the staff away with his second.

The two met on the far side of their foes, falling into defense of the other.

They faced the mountless orcs, unbowed by their superior height, and waited patiently for an opportunity to strike. Thorin had trained them, and trained with them for a lifetime; he had never seen them move with greater purpose and skill than in that moment.

New enemies approached.

Azog still watched, and Thorin could see the malicious glint that forewarned him of the danger to the boys.

An orc feinted out, drawing Fíli away long enough for another to charge Kíli’s flank. The brothers separated. Two more wargs drove forward, and the younger rolled to escape a deadly pounce. The elder was forced to retreat, nearly to the corpse of the first warg he had slain. He lunged, stabbing the orc and running to retrieve his blade’s twin.

While he sought it’s other half, his brother was penned in by enemies.

Thorin shouted warning -- a broken garbled sound that did no good.

Azog approached unnoticed on his white mount, clawed arm aloft in the beginning of a swing Kíli did not know was coming. It connected with a wet crunch that carried over the familiar sound of battle and dropped the world from beneath him more surely than had the branch let go.

The dwarf was knocked to his knees with a cry, pitching forward to one arm, the other wrapped over his side. He was straining to get back to his feet. Defenseless for a moment, a warg closed its jaw around his arm and side, and Thorin knew that ribs were cracking beneath those teeth.

It toyed with him a moment, then flung him aside.

Kíli fell with his arms splayed, and did not move. Dwalin’s ferocious roar shocked the orcs into a moment’s pause that Fíli took advantage of immediately. He had not seen the blow, hande not seen the warg, and could not see his brother’s form on the ground from where he stood, but pushed towards where he had last been in spite of that.

Thorin snarled, baring his teeth at Azog’s taunting gestures.

“Birintura cobdetul.”

It was Fíli’s voice in his mind, dutifully translating the black speech during a lesson in Ered Luin. His youthful voice that echoed in a bored tone, “Bring me the dwarf’s head.”

Dwalin wailed, flinging himself up, only to have the branch break beneath him and leave him more helpless than before.

Fíli heard it. He must have, because he yanked his second blade free and charged into the wargs without thought. He was knocked to the ground.

Dwalin had always told Thorin that nothing would ever best Fíli in a fight as long as he wasn’t trying to save his brother at the same time. They both had known that the greatest weakness that could be opened in the prince was to see his brother’s life in danger.

Thorin knew the ripping whirl of terror that shredded the chest when a beloved’s life was at risk. He had felt it too recently. The vision of Bilbo’s wide eyes staring dully up at him flickered against memory of the usual fire they held. There was no way to make amends for what he had said and done, for the fear-prompted outburst he had used to push his hobbit away. He could not right that wrong.

But he could save his nephews.

He could keep them from feeling the same twist of guilty pain for failing a loved one.

This should have been his fight.

He should have finished what he began outside of Khazâd-dum.

He would not fail again.

Thorin reached again for the secure branch above him, and saw it tear further.  

He clung, and saw the company trying and failing to do similar. A scream caught his attention long enough to see the wizard save Dori and Ori with his staff, straining to hold the weight as he braced himself on the narrow top of the trunk.

If he could have reached the branch, if there had been a chance of reaching it before his broken segment gave way, he would have tried. But every movement tore it that much more.

He could not help his boys.

Fíli clamored back to his feet on the cliff, bellowing a cry and charging his brother’s captors again. They blocked most of Thorin’s view, and he only had a glimpse of his younger heir, still sprawled on his back and unmoving, head rolled back and throat exposed. The massive orc above him held his weapon to Kíli’s neck.

The long dirty scimitar flashed in the firelight as it was raised.

And Fíli wasn’t going to get there fast enough.

Thorin was going to watch another death he should have stopped.

Thorin’s keening yell was mirrored by a inconsolable feminine shriek and Fíli’s agonized roar.

The blade didn’t fall.

The orc wielding it did.

The wargs blocking his view moved. One turned to drive Fíli back to the cliff’s edge. The other leapt towards Azog.

And he saw a small figure over Kíli, wielding the prince’s dropped sword.

The hobbit seemed even smaller facing the orcs.

Thorin couldn’t breathe.

“ _OhFuckYES_!”

He could see tears and scratches over the sturdy leather coat. He could see bruises and blood on him. He could see a ring of dark bruises around his neck.

But all that mattered was that he was seeing him again.

Bright and burning, relief joined the battle of emotion in his mind. Torn between joy that he had survived and fury that he was in the middle of a battle, he could not speak. Bilbo had survived. Bilbo had not left them, had not abandoned him. He should have. He had every right. Yet here he was, standing where Thorin should have been, protecting Kíli.

But Thorin was a warrior, trained to this, suited to this.

Bilbo stood there in spite of what he was, intractable and even at a distance, even from behind, Thorin knew his hobbit’s face was alight with fierce determination. He was a force of nature once he dug in his furry feet.

Before the executioner could advance, Bilbo charged, tackling it to the still burning ground and stabbed until it stopped twitching. He rose and held the sword before him. It was too large, and took most of his focus just to keep it upright. But he held his ground. Practically astride the fallen dwarf, he was undaunted, waiting for the next attack.

Azog pointed his clawed arm too casually at the hobbit.

A warg snarled in answer to the command.

Thorin was transfixed. He could not look away from Bilbo’s foolhardy defense of his heir. He was fearless in the face of his doom. He glowed in the firelight, and Thorin watched the blood dripping on his leg.

This was not a fight Bilbo could win. He could not even survive it.

Guilt and horror nearly overwhelmed him.

A cry burst behind him.

Dwalin had found his feet, and dragged Bifur up with him.

“Go!” Thorin screamed when they reached to help. Everything that mattered was on the cliff, if they saved him him but lost those three, he did not know how he would survive.

They went.

They crashed into the orcs’ flank with the blind fury of defiance and split. Dwalin took the head off the orc stalking towards Bilbo in a single blow, and dropped at Kíli’s side a moment. He turned to sign that Kíli lived. But he wasted no more time before engaging the warg that came for him.

Bifur slammed his boar spear into the side of the closest warg, ripping open the thing’s side as he withdrew it. He sidestepped the spill of blood and organs and with Fíli, pressed out and away from the ledge. His nephew was trying to move for his brother, still frantic and unaware of his brother’s state.

“He lives!” Dwalin shouted in reassurance as he battled another warg. Fire leapt up on fresh tinder, caging them on one side of the cliff while it burned too high to cross.

Bilbo was alone again.

But more of the Company was joining the fight. Balin and Bofur joined his defense just as Bilbo rolled from the snapping jaws of the white warg.

“ _Ohfuckno_! NO! NO!”

Thorin lunged for a thin branch, and cried out when both it and his first slipped further.

Ahead of him he saw Freya climbing onto the top of the branch clumsily. She looked to him for a moment, conflicted, “ _Illberightback_ Thorin! _Hedroppedthering!_ _Dontfall!_ ”

And she ran down the trunk, into the center of the battle.

In the already chaotic fight, she was an unknown, and Thorin watched for every sign of betrayal.

She slipped away from Bifur’s outstretched arm, lunged away from Dwalin’s effort to block her, and slid to a stop beside the pale orc. He knew she was yelling as she went, but could not hear what nonsense she spoke. She was on her knees in leaves and dirt, within arm's reach of Azog when a warg engaged Dwalin, blocking his sightline. When they moved, something had changed. She was trying to crawl away, trying to get to her feet as the white warg sniffed in interest .

Azog paid no attention until he heard Fíli shout and charge. The warg snapped at her feet as she tried to retreat from the commander.

Fíli’s glancing blow was not enough to so much as slow the creature, but Freya took advantage of the distraction it had bought and climbed to her feet to run. She crammed a hand into her pack, storing something as she abandoned the others to the battle. Thorin watched her return with disgust, seeing Fíli struggle to hold the fell beast at bay. He was pressed back at once, endangered and cut off from aid. He barely avoided tooth and claw and blade as he fought alone against the pale orc and his mount.

He was standing in the jaws of death because of her idiotic run into the clash, and his nephew's need to help the innocent.

But she was no innocent. Gifted, yes, but no creature of goodness would bring his Company into such risks. No one but a servant of the enemy would throw Bilbo from a cliff. No one but a slave of darkness would complicate a battlefield to get so close to the enemy’s commander.

She did not stop running at the cliff’s edge, scrambling up and onto the fragile branch he grasped. Wrapping legs and arm around it, she extended her hand.

Every moment of distrust and danger he had sensed about her warred with his self-preservation. The sight of her just now, rushing to gain something from Azog was all too clear. She was a threat and without honor. She had just now left his kin in danger, brought them to greater danger with her needless, pointless charge. She had not drawn a weapon, she had not attempted to defend them or herself.

Now she offered an arm.

To take it would give her the chance to kill him.

The branch groaned, a second break beginning to form between her and the trunk. She noted it as well, and stretched closer.

“Thorin! _Justtakemyhandandgetyourassoutthere_! _Theyfuckingneedyou_!”

She stretched farther still.

Thorin could see Fíli trying to find a weakness in the pale orc.

He flung himself up, feeling his branch tear away as he caught her arm. Hand locked tight on hers, the sudden shift of weight dropped them both to a jerked stop. She screamed in pain. Only an elbow and a knee held them above a fall.

His only guarantee of survival was his grip on her, and her will to live.

She struggled to hold on, and he knew she was too weak to lift him.

“ _Climbup_!” She jerked her head and held his gaze until he complied.

She smothered the scream in her throat when he used her as a ladder to regain the trunk of the tree. Freya lay there for a moment, trying to roll atop the branch, but lacking the strength to do it.

Drowning in echoes of the risks she had brought them to, shaking with thoughts of how close to destruction she had brought them, Thorin snapped.

He hauled her up by the coat, gripping her arm tightly as soon as he had put her feet beneath her. Thorin ignored the whimper of pain, just as he ignored the wet blood beneath his hand.

His knife pressed to her throat.

She deserved to die and more for what she had wrought. She had known this was coming and still had not stopped it. Every injury to his company rested on her shoulders. And what she had done to Bilbo---

His mind went still.

This was what he should have done long ago. He should have killed Azog when he had the chance. He would not make the same mistake again.

But before he could draw the honed steel over her throat, he heard a name cried out on the cliff that overwhelmed every instinct.

“Bilbo!”

Dwalin’s battle-hardened voice never broke like that.

Thorin spun, dropping her, and barely felt the hand that clawed at his leg.

He could not see his shield-brother. He could not see Bilbo.

But Dwalin never sounded like that.

He hefted his shield and drew Orcrist before racing into battle.

“ _Goddammit_ Thorin _youjackass_ \-- _Fuckfuckfuck_ \-- _helpme!_ ”

He heard her yell behind him, but could focus on nothing but reaching them.

“ _Ohfuckno_! No! No! NO!” Her yelling turned to a fading shriek.

Orcrist was already in motion, swinging to open the stomach of the warg in his path when a great dark shape swept it up and flung it off the cliff. Another and another soared down with piercing cries, tossing their enemies into the dark.

His eye found Dwalin, standing above their burglar, while the stouthearted hobbit braced himself on Kili’s blade and forced himself back to standing.

Thorin almost collapsed in gratitude. But there was no time. He spun, searching the darkening sky for their saviours, and casting thanks to the Valar for their rescue.

Eagles.

Enormous Eagles.

They decimated the orc pack in seconds.

As he watched, they swooped in to evacuate his companions, grabbing them in huge talons. His heart stuttered when he watched the eagle grab Bilbo and drop him. But his hobbit appeared on the back of another a moment later, terrified hands clutching at feathers. Thorin sheathed his blade and rushed towards his fallen sister-son in time to see a gentle claw close around him and lift.

Then he was picked up without warning, tossed, and landed on a feathered back.

He saw the tree lose the fight with gravity and plunge off the cliff.

In the fading light he counted the others, and found all fourteen of his Company.

A stuttered exhalation of relief fell out of him. Then he saw a slack form in an eagle’s claw, and his chest seized once more.

“Kíli! Kíli!” The wind dragged away his words before they reached him, and Thorin could not see any sign of life. He would not know his fate until they reached wherever the Eagles were bringing them. But the others were all awake and alive. Dwalin signed again and again that Kili lived, and Thorin watched his youngest for long minutes, willing the dwarf to move and confirm it.

But he stayed still. Thorin had to look away.

He found Bilbo on a eagle nearby, and before the night swallowed him, Thorin memorized the face that stared back with wet cheeks and furious joy.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo...... yes.  
>  That was too much fun to write, well, once Thorin actually was willing to play along. And apparently I like ridiculously long action arcs, but I PROMISE we denouement next chapter.
> 
> You are welcome to come yell at me on [tumblr](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/) any time you want.
> 
> KHUZDUL  
>  Nî astu sazrali lanzablâgu rukhsund, idmê : If you want to be a warg’s dinner be my guest  
>  Ingadân : near sons


	11. Solid Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thorin is not happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) remain the angry cheerleaders who throw things at me when I need it. But this is being posted early because of [HallsofStone2941](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941).
> 
> Very little khuzdul this time. Oodles of _smashedsentences_  
>  And as a reminder, sometimes there are words that I had previously marked as Frey understanding them that suddenly aren't. That's done intentionally most of the time because we do not always catch foreign words we know every time they are used. Ok, I'll stop delaying you checking in on Kili's health now....

Fíli would have been more impressed with riding a giant eagle if his brother was with him. Or conscious.

This was not what they had planned.

He had watched the eagle bearing Kíli until the dark grew dense. Then he had to wait through long cold hours, burrowed into feathers and holding at bay his amad's weeping accusations. If he had to tell her he had failed, it would break her. It would break him.

So he tried to take refuge in sleep after the madness of the last day, and failed at that as well. His comfort was knowing Thorin was alive. They had averted that at least.

Azog survived. Fíli had seen him astride his warg as the eagle had snatched him off the cliff.

Bilbo had been on the cliff.

Fíli had no idea how he had come to be there, but he had seen a glimpse of the hobbit standing over Kíli, defending the fallen dwarf against orcs that towered over him.  

Long after the darkness made it impossible to tell, he realized he had not looked for Freya when he tried to count the company members. It would have to wait.

The sky was smudged with pale pink light by the time the eagle he rode began to circle down to a spire of stone that stood out in the landscape. The small figures atop it couldn’t be identified until he was nearly there. But by the time the eagle had landed, and he slid off its back, Fili had seen what was happening.

Bofur has his mattock out, and was spitting a low livid rant of khuzdul.

Freya was standing opposite him, silent for once, with hammer in hand.

They were bare seconds from descending into violence.

This was not good. Of all the people to have arrived first, there could not have been a worse combination. Well, Frey and Thorin, but then there would have been nothing for Fíli to do, since she would have already been murdered, and he could have just listened to his body and collapsed in a heap while he waited to see if his brother was dead.

Instead he kept walking.  

He stepped past the dwarf without comment, and waited for the rant to fade away. While he did, he noted her torn, bloody sleeve, the dark stain on the leg she was favoring, and a thin red line below her jaw. There was also the more obvious wave of indignation hovering around her that made him scowl. He did not have time for this.

Bofur was still going. Freya had not looked away from the miner.

Fíli turned impatiently, and the rant ended.

“We can’t trust her, lad.”

Shifting into a stance of command in spite of his exhaustion and doubt, he retorted, “I did not say we were.”

“You’ve got your back turned on her an’ she’s armed. You trust her.”

He could see more eagles approaching. The riders were unknown. With the wrong set this was going to become far more complicated.  So he turned back to her and held out a hand for her weapon.

“ _Nopenothappening_ Fíli.”

“Frey.”

“Bofur _hastriedtokillmetwicealready_. _Didyouknowthat_? Thorin _hastoo_. _Fuckergavemethis_.” She pointed to her neck, “Thorin! _Thenhethrewmeoffabloodytree_! _Sosorry_. _Youcanthavemyweapon_. _Idonttrustyou_.”

The hammer shifted to a better grip.

“Frey.”

“ _Toughcookiescutie. Idonttrustyouallnottothrowmetomydeath. Youlikesymbolism. Icanttrustyounottotryandkillme. Whichisprettyshitty. Isavedhisfuckinglife._ ”

Dwalin, Gloin and Oin were circling above. He had no allies for this amongst them.

“Frey, please?” He gestured again, using what Kíli called his Crown Prince Voice. She didn’t surrender the weapon, but she did slacken her hold on it and hesitate. He had her disarmed before she knew he was closing the distance. The hammer was tucked in his belt and the blade kept in hand.

She started talking several times but descended into outraged stammering several times. She was several steps past furious, but didn’t attack beyond smacking him once in the arm.

“ _If_ Thorin _stabsmeitisyourfault_.”

He shoved Bilbo’s sword at Bofur.

“There. Disarmed. Give that to Bilbo.”

“Still can’t--”

“It is not your decision to make. It’s my Uncle’s.”

Bofur’s grin was anticipatory. The miner was probably right about what Thorin’s decision would be.

The three he had seen slid onto the stone, relieved to be out of the air. Dwalin stormed over, headed for FílI.

“What were ya thinking lad?” He thundered as he manhandled the prince, checking for serious injury. The warrior and weapons master wasn’t going to believe anything Fíli said, so he just waited until Dwalin had found there to be no injury. “Ya coulda been killed with that damn-fool charge.”

His commanding voice had never worked on Dwalin, but he tried.

“I wasn’t.”

Kíli however… He shut down that line of speculation as soon as he noticed it rise, and cast his eyes skyward again. He could see more Eagles approaching.

It was only Dwalin’s frown over his shoulder that called his attention to Frey in time to stop her slipping past him. Why she was headed towards Bofur, when he was still furious and guarding her with his hammer in eager hands he couldn't fathom.

She grunted in aggravation when Fíli intercepted her.

“ _Jackasses. Allofyou. Iamtryingtohelp. Ibroughtthingsincaseofthis! Ithoughtitdbe_ Thorin! _Butits_ Kili _andIlikehimmore. Sofuckyou! Andletmehelp!_ ”

She shoved, trying to get around him. He, Dwalin and Bofur all moved at once.

He pulled her out of the way of Bofur’s lunge. Dwalin stepped between and caught the miner by the shoulder. For a few seconds it seemed like one or the other was going to snap and start the fight he had interrupted. After a quick appraisal, he was convinced it would be her, bare-handed and feral.

An eagle’s shriek cut through the air. They all looked up at the form held gently in its claw.

Then it was chaos.

Kíli was set down and Óin hurried to his side. Fíli’s world narrowed to his brother and nothing else.

His brother did not react save for the lifeless flop of limbs as he was settled on a section of smooth stone. Fíli could not move from where he stood beside Dwalin on the opposite side of the rock. Glóin dropped at his Kili'’s side to help.

“He’s alive, laddie.” Glóin shouted.

Fíli exhaled sharply a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Dwalin caught him by the elbow and kept him upright. But the Company’s healer was working too frantically for him to be comforted by that declaration. From where he stood, Fili couldn’t see what was being treated.

“ _Dammit_ Bofur! _Justletmehelp! Orgivethisto_ Óin! _Justgiveittohim! Youmistrustfulasswipe! Takethemedicinebefore_ Kíli _dies_!”

He didn’t even notice the Wizard’s arrival, only seeing him when Óin stepped aside.

Gandalf passed a hand over Kíli’s face, muttering too low to hear. Most of the others were landing around them, climbing off backs, and tumbling to stops as they were set down from eagle talons. It was several long minutes he watched, not knowing what the wizard was doing, or how serious the injuries were.

Then Kíli shifted.

A deep breath later, he rolled to his side and tried to sit up.

Fíli was already running.

He ignored the healer’s shout about injuries. Ignored Gandalf’s startled grumble. Ignored his brother’s efforts to move on his own. Just hauled him into an armor denting hug and refused to let go.

He would have come to his senses and let go of his wounded brother after a few seconds if Kili hadn’t been holding on just as tightly. The terror of having to see his brother buried faded to the back of his mind where it normally lived. He wasn’t quite crying, but he couldn’t slow down his breathing, couldn’t stop the mild tremble in his fingers, and couldn’t stop the shake of his chest.

It took a long time before either of them got themselves under control. Maybe the others were speaking, yelling, fighting. Maybe they’d all been eaten by trolls. If they were, he couldn’t hear them. And he didn’t care.

“We charge him first,” Fíli muttered into the shoulder he was pressed against, “terrible plan nadadith.”

“Worked didn’t it? I told you it would.”

“Next time we need a better plan, alright?”

“No reason to change what isn’t broken.”

“Mahal, you always were the stupid one.”

Kíli chuckled and gasped. They broke apart carefully, Fíli half-holding him up. Then Thorin crashed into them both.

“Sorry we didn’t kill him uncle.” He mumbled after Thorin relaxed his hold enough for Fili to breathe.

“Yeah, sorry about getting hurt Uncle.”

“My two brave, stupid boys. Ingadânê” Thorin replied, pulling them in by the neck to knock all their foreheads together. He didn’t seem able to find more to say than that. Which was just as well, since Fíli knew his uncle's tendency to ramble on at the least convenient times.

The moment stretched long and sweet between them, a balm after the last day of misery and threat. It came apart naturally, still in silence atop the tower of stone. But the end of that moment seemed to break the spell holding the others back.

There was a great deal of shouting, and Fíli got pounded on the back long enough that he felt a bruise forming. They were more merciful with Kíli.

“I think I remember getting hit. I know I remember the warg but I must have blacked out after,” Kíli said once all the hugging died back down, with a proud grin on his face, “how did you get to me, nadad? There were at least two wargs and their riders between us.”

Fíli flinched at the confidence behind the question. It hadn’t occurred to Kili that his brother had failed him. Azog’s command sounded in his mind again.

“I didn’t.” He couldn’t manage to say more.

His brother wasn’t able to hide the flash of betrayal fast enough, but didn’t say a thing about it. Fíli had been cut off, and hadn’t seen what saved Kíli’s life.

Dwalin leaned in and got their attention.

“Bilbo saved you lad.”

Both brothers whipped around to see the hobbit. He’d been sitting on a rough boulder, slumped and exhausted, but leapt to his feet as the attention of thirteen dwarves settled on him. He looked nervous. Fíli could feel his Uncle’s proud joy like a beacon of light. It would have been hard to miss.

“That hobbit took care of the orc about to have your head off laddie, then he stayed with ya til we could get to him.” Kíli was frozen and incredulous watching the uncomfortable burglar fidget. Then both brothers were rushing the hobbit, scooping him into a tight embrace and shouting thanks at him.

“ _Iseehowitis. Hegetshugged. Igetthreatened. Fuckyouguys. Softballedtwerps._ ” Fíli saw her standing behind Bofur, holding a pack.

Bilbo squirmed out of their arms after a few moments, grinning broadly and earnestly. Kíli tilted the hobbit’s head up to look at the vicious bruising that circled his neck.

“How’d you get this? One of the orcs grab you?”

“No I--” And Bilbo’s voice failed him. What little there had been that is. He croaked more than he spoke, then broke into a pathetic coughing fit. Fíli winced, and felt the company do the same behind him. There was a short burst of movement as everyone checked. The few water skins they had kept through Goblintown were empty, rolled in the bottom of the few packs that they still had.

But Bilbo couldn’t seem to stop that terrible wheezing hack.

“ _OhsweetholyTolkien_ Bofur _wouldyoujustletme? Finefuckyoutoo -- IhopeBeorneatsyou._ Oy, Fili!”

He turned. She had a hand on the staff of the mattock. There was a waterskin in her other. It seemed full, and as soon as she had his attention, she tossed it to him.

“ _Sorryaboutallthat_ Bilbo. _Hopeithelps_.” She shouted.

Bilbo gulped the water, coughed harder, and tried again with small sips. He got himself under control and smiled at them both a bit teary, but it turned to a rigid frown as he saw someone coming. Thorin was almost able to capture the hobbit in an embrace, but Bilbo stepped back, and an unexpectedly fervent glare locked over his features. He shook his head slowly and waggled his finger back and forth. Not willing to risk coughing again, he silently fought with Thorin, neither of them so much as moving.

Something must have happened there. Between them. Something unpleasant.

He glanced to Kíli. Yes, he had seen it too.

It was only more obvious when Bilbo corked the skin, curtly nodded and stepped away, pointedly dodging contact with Thorin. He crossed the spire and stood in front of Freya, defying Bofur’s attempt to stop him. What was passing between them, Fíli could not say; he was busy playing crutch to his brother.

Eventually, Bilbo held out the waterskin.

She shook her head and pressed it back towards him.

“ _Justkeepit_ Bilbo. _Incasetheidiotsdecidetokillme. Idontthinkyoufuckershaveany._ ” She nodded at his neck, and Fíli barely heard when she said, “Gollum?”

It sounded sympathetic. It sounded worried.

Bilbo jumped back so fast Fíli thought it was a threat. Thorin certainly believed so. He was at Bilbo’s side, knife in hand in seconds. The hobbit squeaked when he tried to talk.

“ _Ohfrickingfuckthisagain_?”

“What does Gollum mean? Did she force you into the Goblin trap?” The king asked, weapon at her throat. Fíli finally knackered on to what she had meant earlier, pointing at her neck, and could see her paper-thin patience fading.

Bilbo hemmed and hawed before nodding.

“ _Youknowwhen_ Bilbo _savedyourlifeyouhuggedhim_.”

“Did she throw you off the bridge?”

Bilbo didn’t respond, studying her. His hand was settled lightly over the bruise on his neck.

“ _NotsayingIwantahug. Butlessofthestabbingwouldbegreat_.”

“I already told ya she did, Thorin.” Bofur interrupted.

The hobbit flinched. Fíli turned when he was nudged by his brother. Kíli asked in iglishmek why Fíli wasn’t saying anything, and the only answer he could find was that this was Thorin’s decision.

Thorin’s very clearly already made decision.

“ _Lookyoufuckfacedbastard. Justonceletmeexplainthings. Letmetry. Withoutyoutryingtostabme. Iamsooveryoutryingtostabme. Andifyouwouldjustfuckinglistentomywordsforonce? Maybeyournephewouldnthavealmostdied._ ”

They had managed to prevent Azog killing their uncle. Granted, they would have to remain vigilant since the pale orc would surely return, but now that they knew about it, now that they knew about her warning, Freya’s task was done. He signed as much to Kíli. The response was concise and vulgar.

He repeated his comment. Kíli signed that she had saved his life, then faltered, and added, ‘a little.’

Fíli looked back to the pair on the edge. His uncle had her by the arm, holding her off balance as he and Bilbo held a silent conversation of their own. Their's was all in expressions and glances.  

Whatever was happening between them was beyond his ability to decipher right now.

Bofur at least had stepped back, not that it had stopped the victorious smirk. It was like nothing he had seen on the miner’s face in the decades he had known him. But, he knew that Bofur had a fiercely loyal streak in him. And his time as a miner had been preceded by a lengthy time guarding caravans. It was the main reason he was on the quest at all. Once someone tripped him from his normal jocular self, he became vicious.

“Did she throw you, Bilbo?” Thorin repeated clearly.

Bilbo nodded.

Fíli meant to look at his brother, a reminder of the luck and good fortune they had seen in the last day. His eyes caught on Frey’s instead as Thorin rocked her over the edge, hissing in Khuzdul.

Terror and betrayal and anger.

She was clinging to Thorin’s wrist, but it would do nothing to stop the blade he held. Her hammer on his belt weighed him down more than its size should have. He grabbed Nori as he moved to intervene, signing ‘Thorin is the king’ when a murderous stare shifted to him. They could do what they wanted to try to keep her out of death’s path, but they could not challenge the ruling that Thorin was stating, peppered with vehement curses.

The Company could not do anything.

Either through ignorance or apathy or courage, Bilbo disregarded that fact.

The hobbit caught her arm and Thorin’s at the same time, guiding her back to safety and matching the King glare for glare. He carefully cleared his throat to speak at a croak, “No. Complicated. Wait.”

Fili had to watch and find out with the rest whether Thorin would listen.

His uncle wasn’t going to, and this wasn’t the time to think about why he felt twisted about that. Nori wrenched his arm away and crossed the stone. The thief didn’t touch Thorin, just caught Frey by the strap of her pack and pulled her away from the king.

“Don’t know whatcha think yer doin’ uzbad.”

“I am protecting my Company from one that has threatened and endangered them.”

“ _Thanksforthat_ Nori. _Butdontpisshimoff_. _Hemightthinkyourehelpingme_."

“Would ya stop an’ think?” Nori shouted, ignoring her, “Just a bit, maybe, before you kill someone that saved yer life?”

Fíli and Kíli shot looks to each other, unsure what he was on about.

“She did nothing of the kind.”

“I saw ya on the tree. You tellin me you coulda gotten off that branch without her help?”

“ _Fuckinghellwhatsgoingon_?”

“That does not outweigh her other actions.” Thorin replied.

“She tried to kill our hobbit!” Bofur interrupted.

“Shut it Bofur! What actions are those Thorin?” Thorin turned to look at Bilbo. “We’re gettin’ ta that. Before then. What actions? When she brought supplies? When she gave ya that shiny elf sword? Iklifumun, she was trying to get us outta tha’ cave! She knew there were gonna be a whole mess of Goblins in there an’ she followed us in. She got ya off that branch an’ ya turned around an’ tried ta kill her. Why can’t ya see she’s tryin’ ta help?”

“She tossed Bilbo --” Bofur challenged.

“ _Areyoudefendingme_ Nori? _OhmygodIthinkyouare_.”

“-- an’ me into the trap with you all!”

“She knew what was comin’ an’ she didn’t run screamin’ the other way even though she doesn’t know what she’s doin’. Even after how we've treated her!"

“ _OhfuckyesGo_ Nori.”

“If she knew what was coming she should have prevented it.” Thorin said brandishing the knife at her again.

“She’s tryin!”

“She’s failing.”

“Cause you don’t let her say nothin’!”

“Because she cannot speak!”

“Yes she can.” Fíli said softly. Not softly enough. All four turned to look at him. Kíli elbowed him hard, and he kept talking. “She can…. If you let her try.”

“ _DidIhitmyhead? Areyouinsufferableassholesactuallydefendingme? AmIasleep? HaveIdied_?”

“Takhlikiya.”

“She does, she tries Uncle.” Kíli added.

“Yeah, Bifur watched in Rivendell. She tries.” Bifur was nodding and signing additions beside Nori, corroborating the arguments being made. “An’ about Bilbo? If we’re right, an’ she’s been tryin’ ta help? What’d she think woulda happened ta him if he’d been with us that woulda made her think throwin’ him off a cliff would be a good idea?”

Fíli saw Bilbo pale, but turned to her again. She was absolutely lost, unable to keep up with the rapid yelling. She was nervous.

Thorin had clearly not thought of it like that. Neither had Fíli to be honest. He went back through the last two days. The storm, the giants, the cave, the goblins. Considering when she had arrived, she had been in that storm. She may have been in the Thunder battle. There was her frantic effort to get them out of the cave. There was what Nori had said about the tree. There was her defense of them with the goblins.

There was how they had treated her since first seeing her outside the Shire.

He looked back to her, pondering what in Mahal’s name she was doing here. He would have given up on them long ago. She was still here and still provoking Thorin’s legendary temper.

While he reconsidered the last weeks, Thorin was staring at Bilbo’s shaking head. He was momentarily distracted.

She snatched Thorin’s knife from his hand.

Fully half the dwarves watching let out little shocked noises. The rest let out larger ones.

She held it disdainfully between finger and thumb. Reasonable; it had been at her throat more than enough for her to dislike it.

She waited only long enough to have Thorin’s attention before lobbing the knife off the edge.

“ _Whoops_.”

And she held the King’s eye in silent challenge.

The look she put on after was conspicuously innocent.

“ _Imsorrywasthatyours? Didyouwantthat? Toobad. Idontknowwhatshappening. Plus? Tiredofyoutryingtogutme_.”

Fíli gaped along with the others. Bilbo snagged Thorin’s arm to keep him in place. Nori pulled her away by a step and slightly behind where he could defend her.

Gandalf’s chuckle broke the moment, and despite Thorin’s frustration, the company started to join in, breaking the tension.

“I think that was retaliation for what ya did ta _her_ knife.” Dwalin added helpfully.

It was being suppressed as much as they could, but the last day had drawn them through the wringer, and exhaustion was starting to show.

Bilbo took advantage of the distraction and pushed Thorin to get him walking away from those that had just fought him. He was still muttering about how he did not trust her, would not ever trust her. Gandalf crossed to him and they began to mutter back and forth.

Their hobbit turned back to Frey, contemplating her. Fíli moved to join them, but then Kíli gasped in pain, and his world narrowed down to his brother and nothing else.

“Sit back down lad, the wizard’s told me he fixed yer insides but that yer probably still bleeding and just don’t know it.” Óin appeared beside them with a flask.

“Can’t this wait?”

Óin didn’t say a word to that, but a moment later, Kíli was out of his gambeson, and peeling the shirt free of the blood stuck to it. His side and back were covered, and two broken wheals were raised above the more banal mess of scratches, swelling and forming bruises. The whole thing wrapped around from naval to spine on his right side. Even with whatever the wizard had done, he wasn’t going to be in fighting form for a week at least.

Fíli was more exhausted than he thought.

Again, he had missed an arrival until they were in front of him.

Frey held out a pack to Óin.

“ _Fromtheelves_. Elves. For Kíli.” She flicked the pack open and pointed, “Kíli.”

The bag was stuffed with elvish medicine. Bandages, jars and vials of ointments, and a pack of very finely made needles with a spool of silk thread.

Óin glanced at the bag, opened a jar, then went to work.

Needle threaded and wounds wiped clean, Óin had Kíli drink again before he began stitching closed the gashes and punctures.

He should have been paying more attention to the others, but Kíli had grabbed his hand and was doing his best to break most of the bones there. It was the only sign of pain he gave, but was enough to keep Fíli from walking or looking away.

Once bandages were being wrapped over the poulticed wounds, Kíli let go and smirked in reassurance. Fíli finally noticed the rest of the Company.

Most were slumped in various positions across the rock, sorting through what little had survived the caves. Weapons mostly. A few empty water skins. A few handfuls of cram that had been in pockets rather than packs. No blankets or bed rolls.

Ori was leaning into Dwalin with closed eyes and a warhammer across his lap.

Thorin and Bilbo were still standing, checking the scrapes and cuts and bruises the other had, and looking, in almost every way, like they hated each other. Except for the way that they paused for a few seconds at a time, vulnerable and clinging. Beyond his throat, Bilbo had a few minor injuries, and something on his leg that made Thorin frantic until Bilbo convinced him otherwise.

Fíli felt like he was intruding, so forced himself to look away.

Nori and Bifur were plotting in high-speed iglishmek. Blocked by their bodies and faster than Fíli could follow, it was a mystery until he caught sight of a double flick-twist of fingers by Bifur’s face. ‘Idiot girl.’ Well, those two were probably sorting out a way to keep her alive long enough to get her away from the Company. They could be trusted with that.

It seemed all the others were well, uninjured save minor annoyances, and if that wasn’t a miracle handed directly down from the Maker, nothing was. Everyone, even Gandalf, was retreating towards sleep by unspoken agreement.

He turned once more, ready to roll his coat into a pillow and finally rest.

Instead he saw Thorin glowering at Bilbo and Freya who were gesturing through a conversation, seated on the first step of the rough stairs. Between his missing voice and her missing language, it was a disaster. But they were finding a way. She had stripped off the largest two packs and was flicking looks between the bags, Bilbo, and the Company. Fíli remembered the medical supplies she had brought, knowing Kíli would need them.

No, knowing _someone_ would need them. He had heard her panicked scream when Kíli fell. That had been a surprise to her. She had warned them that Thorin would be killed by Azog, so she had expected Thorin to fight him. Still she had hauled a bag of medicine up the mountains, defended it against the grasping claws of goblins, and managed to keep it when they had all lost theirs. For someone who had repeatedly threatened her. Who she hated.

He jumped at the tap on his arm, startled out of his drowsy wandering. Bilbo smiled weakly. He held out a piece of waybread.

“I thought you lost your pack?”

Bilbo nodded.

“So how do you have this?”

He tilted his head back towards her and shrugged before opening the pack to show him the full contents. Waybread and dried meat and a half dozen tightly rolled waterskins.

“We cannot trust her Master Baggins.” Thorin said suddenly, appearing at his other side. “Even the wizard knows not what to make of her. If you will not let me rid us of her, we must be more cautious. Those could be poisoned.”

Bilbo glared back sardonically and took a bite. Thorin flinched, but accepted the piece Bilbo gave him afterwards. The hobbit walked on, passing out food to everyone.

They nibbled at the dry elvish bread.

“She is dangerous.”

“Not at the moment, Uncle, leave off.” Fíli snapped without thinking. When the frustrated ire turned on him, he pointed. “Not at the moment. I think between us all we can defend against _that_.”

Frey was asleep. Sitting on the first step, she was lost to the world, head slumped forward and bobbing.

Thorin scoffed.

“Take first watch, Nori on second, Bifur on third.”

That was the last thing he wanted to do. He would have preferred fighting Azog again. That would have kept him awake at least. But Thorin’s scowl, as well as the others on the list, made it clear that this was a punishment, so Fíli conjured a contrary grin from the dregs of his energy.

“Of course Uncle.”

 

* * *

 

 

The little trilling sound was _obnoxious_. Very obnoxious. When she finally found her phone she just sort of slapped it until it stopped making that noise.

Which it did somewhat reluctantly. Only to start up again a moment later. When it refused to stop she crammed it into the sofa cushions and sat up wobbily. Apartment. Alarm. Work. Bus.

Right.

Coffee was going to be necessary. All of the coffee. Maybe she could run by Starbucks on the way. There was a gift card around somewhere.

Yes. There it was, under the fish tank. Gift card.

Which meant now there needed to be clothes as she had apparently slept in her uniform the night before. Very weird. Wasn’t even comfortable.

She rubbed at her neck and scratched her nails through her hair, yawning, fighting the impulse to curl right back up on the hideous pink thrift store sofa and go to sleep. She’d bought the damn thing thinking it would be impossible to sleep on it, and wow but she had never been more wrong.

Not an option.

Coffee: yes.

Sleeping: no.  

She shook it off and stepped to join the back of the line. Why were the occupants of a coffee shop always so damned loud? Hypercaffeinated air? Was that written into the wifi terms of service?

They needed to shut up. There was something important she had forgotten and she knew that if they would just zip it, she would be able to suss out what it was. Important wasn’t enough to get along with. She needed to go somewhere, was that it? Something was lost, and she needed to find it?

Or maybe someone was lost?

Maybe if these idiots would all just cram a foot in it, she could find the thing dancing around on the edge of her mind.

Hmmmm. Barista. Big. Big Coffee. All the coffee. Now please.

They only had strawberry milk on the bar though. Delicious yes, but not in coffee. Back to her fridge then. Oh good, she had half and half.

Chunky.

She did not have half and half.

She did have a new phone. Very shiny. It needed to be stored in the fridge to charge. The cold air kept the battery strong.

That lingering sense of forgotten knowledge plucked at her again. There was something she needed to remember.

Smiling, she sat down at the fancy table. With a dreadfully sharp knife she sliced off a bite of the frankly perfect steak and grinned at it before eating. Steak, red meat, no, just protein, any protein shouldn’t have been so delicious. Why was protein so incredibly tasty all of a sudden? This was easily the best meal she had ever tasted.

There were hasselbacked potatoes with sour cream oozing down the sides with bacon and chives sprinkled liberally over the top. There was fresh bread under a towel with butter in a bowl next to it. There was chicken satay. There was a chocolate sundae with more whipped cream than the bowl could contain. There was a bowl of broccoli. There was spanikopita. There was a thing of bubbly queso and chorizo with brightly colored chips. There were chili cheese tater tots. There was watermelon.

All of it went together brilliantly.

There was even a funny looking bottle of wine.

That meant something.

No clue what, but something.

There was a bag full of flatbread things. That was… the bag…

It was almost there. Out of the shadows on the edge of her brain. It was just hovering, waiting for her to take one more step and see it.

She looked back at the bag. Oh Right.

Erebor.

She turned around and stumbled on a small mountain of gold. It slid beneath her and she rode the wave of it to the ground. It was all hers of course. The low grumbling behind her caught her attention and she looked at Smaug.

He looked back.

She scowled.

He snarled.

She stuck out her tongue.

He licked her.

That was gross.

She gestured and he bowed low, submitting. A bright flame burst over him, green and white and blue eating away at scales and making him glow from within, ethereal and hollow. His jaw stretched wide in silent pain and he arched high, wings outstretched while they melted and dripped flaming sheets to the ground. His bones lasted longest, deep shadows amidst the blaze, sketching the creature that he had once been.

It burned and ate at him until there was nothing left but an outline of ash settled over the uncountable pile of golden wealth.

She turned at a sound behind her and saw the army of orcs and trolls approaching. With a shake of her head and a pointed finger they turned obediently and marched the other way.

With her coffee back in hand she placed a furry pink cushion on the throne and sat down, watching a triple wedding. First Bilbo and Thorin, then Bifur and Dori, then Legolas and Tauriel.

But no.

That wasn’t right.

Gimli pulled off his Tauriel mask and stilts with a laugh and the wedding continued. Much better.

She reached for a second cup of coffee from the counter and found Kíli staring her down behind a nocked arrow. There was no warning before it flew and blood streamed down her chest to flood the room, drowning all the gold in crimson.

 

* * *

 

Frey jolted awake, short of breath, sunblind and deeply disturbed. Mentally that is. Her mind was still quite entirely confused by whatever had just happened inside her skull. It hadn’t felt like a dream. It felt oddly lifelike. It felt like Galadriel and the porn. But Galadriel wasn’t around. At least, she had better not be around. There was that whole Dol Guldor situation to sort out on her end. Plus, that dream hadn’t been nearly pornographic enough. It had to be a normal dream then. It was just unusual, and long, and too realistic to easily be brushed aside.

So yes, mentally, Frey was rather off kilter.

Physically she wasn’t uncomfortable so much as she was in agony and unaware of her surroundings.

She rolled forward, hoping to give her screaming spine an adjustment period before she asked it to sit up. She jerked again when a hand caught her arm.

Her eyes popped open and she whimpered. She wasn’t more than a foot from falling off the ledge and down the very steep, very rough, very fatal stairs.

At least she was fully awake now. She had even forgotten how much her back hurt.

Adrenaline.

The hand had helped her to sit up before she bothered to see who it was, and since she was already scooching back from death on her butt, she just continued the action when she saw Fíli.

The company and the wizard were asleep, slumped across each other and lying on what packs and coats they had left. Ori was asleep on Dwalin’s shoulder. Bombur was rolled into his own tummy. Nori was using Bofur as a pillow. Bilbo was as far from Thorin as possible. Gandalf reclined against a stone.

The sun was high and hot, but none of them cared, too exhausted to be bothered by something so paltry.

And keeping watch was Fíli. Who had kept Bofur from attacking her and then let Thorin dangle her over an edge without lifting a finger. Who had then joined Nori’s defense of her. Who had disarmed her. Who had just saved her life.

Fíli didn’t make sense.

With the way her life had gone lately, Frey wasn’t a particular fan of things that didn’t make sense. Case in point, Middle Earth was not currently high on her list of faves.

He answered her quizzical glare.

“You _almostrolledofftheedge_.” He gestured to her, twisting his fingers and pointed down the stairs. She glanced again at the steep cuts in the side of the Carrock and took his meaning.

“Well, Thanks for explaining that at least. But I had caught on. Sort of obvious.”

“You _shouldprobably_ go. You _canleavebeforetheotherswake_. _Igotyourbags_. You _canreturnto_ Rivendell. _Idontthinkhistemperwillhold_. _Idontthink_ you _wanttodie_. Go _backto_ Rivendell.”

Wonderful, they were going to start back with this again.

“No Fíli, you silly dwarf. I am going to go to Erebor, and keep your dumbasses alive. Even if you are fucking bastards to me every step of the way. All this is just getting started. Me go Erebor.”

“Frey. Thorin? You?” He pointed at her neck. “Go. _Otherwisehewilldothatagain_.”

“Wasn’t surprising. He does that alot. It’s just what we do now. I scream at him, he threatens to kill me. It’s our thing. Besides, I got rid of his favorite ‘threaten to kill me’ knife.”

“Frey.” That was the tone of someone expecting to be obeyed.

“No.” That was too bad for him.

“Azog _didnotkill_ Thorin. You _cangobackwhereitissafe_. _Weknownow_. We _willwatchoutfor_ Azog. You _cangolearntotalk_. _Maybe_ you _canreturnonedayandexplain_. _Maybe_ Nori _isrightand_ you _canproveit_.” He was talking too fast for her to follow along. Once he noticed her impatient grump, he blew out a long breath. “Thorin no Azog. Frey Go.”

He was gesturing to clarify, speaking as clearly as possible, really trying to get his point across. She was exhausted and shaken and injured and fed up. It took a while, but eventually she found his point.

“Ohhhh. Wow. You are a pretty pony aren’t you? Fucking hell. You’re worse than Bilbo. Or is this just the obligatory ‘I do believe the worst is behind us’ moment on the Carrock?” Giggling was a bit rude, but she couldn’t stop.

Silly optimistic dwarf.

She had such an urge to pat him on the head like a puppy.

She gestured broadly to show the past, “Thorin no Azog.” She pointed to the bit of mountain in the distance. “Erebor? Thorin Azog. Kili Bolg. You Azog. And in between? More shit than you can imagine.”

She laughed again, sympathetic to his wounded expression, but not enough to sugarcoat it. Even if she’d had the words to do so.

“Me go Erebor,” she concluded.  

She started to rise, groaning as the cut on her leg pulled, and feeling fresh blood leak. Keeping Thorin from going splat hadn’t been fun. The tree branch she had been wrapped over had ripped open her arm and thigh. They were only slowly bleeding though, so she was going to ignore it until she found water.

He noticed her pain, but didn’t do anything when she waved him off. On her feet, she counted the company, all dozing, all alive. Fourteen. And a Wizard. It hadn’t seemed so damned dangerous watching it from her couch. It hadn’t seemed like death was going to be quite as likely as it had been the last few days. But all of them had survived. She had survived. It was a miracle to say the least. And apparently optimism was contagious. For the first time in months she was starting to feel a tiny bit of confidence in actually succeeding at this ludicrous, impossible task.

She’d survived Goblintown. She’d survived the cliff. Thorin hadn’t managed to kill her. Nori and Bifur and Fili had actually defended her. She had chucked Bilbo off a random cliff and he had lived. Her private hell was a bit less bleak than normal.

Optimistic wasn’t the same as well rested, and she didn’t realize Fili had stood up as well until he turned her around. He looked more like his uncle when he was angry. Well, frustrated. Angry for dwarves seemed to always include weaponry. “Frey. You--” he cut off and lowered his voice, “you _cannotgoto_ Erebor _andgetkilledbecauseofus_. _Ifithasntbeennoticedthisisdangerous_. You _dontknowwhatyouredoing_. You _areworsethan_ Bilbo.”

“I still don’t know what you’re saying. Remember?”

“ _Stopdoingthisbefore_ Thorin _takesyourheadoff_.”

“Still don’t know. Let’s stick with tradition.”

“ _Heistheking_.”

“Me go Erebor.” She did her best to sound immovable.

“Ach. You _mustbeinsane_.”

“Me go Erebor.” Absolutely intractable.

“ _Areyoutryingtogetkilled_? _Thisisworsethan_ Kíli _andhisplantocharge_ Azog. _Do_ you not _stopandthink_? _Thisisgoingtogohorribly_. _Youlldie_. _Myunclewillgloat_. Nori _willthrowafit_. _Wouldyoupleasejustgobackto_ Rivendell? _Andnotdie_? _Isthattoomuchtoask_?”

Frey let him sputter for a minute, holding back the yawn on the consideration that it would probably be rather insulting. He was confusing, yes, but currently in the ally column.

But she was tired. When he hesitated in his softly hissed, impassioned tirade, she pinched her fingers shut in front of him and shushed.

His eyebrows tightened and he glowered in silence.

“Get over it. Me go Erebor. I don’t care if you want me there. If you all kick me out again, I will go make friends with Beorn, and I swear to God I will. I will so ride that motherfucking giant bear into battle and save your ass, dont you think I won’t! But for now, fuck off Fíli. I had to chase you up a mountain and then we ran away from Goblins for a day straight. I want to be asleep. So shush it, you nitwit. I’m claiming that rock as a barrier against falling and splattering myself to death, and I am going the fuck to sleep. Shush.”

She dropped the pack off her back onto the ground as a pillow, and collapsed on it. And she only smirked a little at the frustrated grumbling that walked away from her.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how nice it feels to end on something other than rising action? On something other than a cliffhanger? Agh, gahhh, it's so nice. I mean that.  
> And based on how many people have been hoping that the lads finally help her/support her/defend her, I'm hoping this went over well. Nori and I are buddies. Formatting and I hate each other. It takes a heck of a lot what with the italics being slipped into things left and right. If you see me miss some in the SmashText, just let me know, I don't always see them.  
> Love love love love love to you all!
> 
> KHUZDUL
> 
> nadadith : little brother  
> Ingadânê : My Near sons  
> nadad : brother  
> Iklifumun : Dammit  
> Takhlikiya : she tries


	12. A Long Overdue Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they finally start to listen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) and [TheLadyZephyr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLadyZephyr/pseuds/TheLadyZephyr) are practically perfect in every way. 
> 
> I'd like to suggest you read this chapter on a computer if you can. The Khuzdul is word-banked at the end, but there is a bit more than usual.

Yeah. Nori should have buggered off to Bree with his brothers when he’d had the chance.

Sod the contract. Sod his reputation. Sod the Durins.

He hadn’t signed up for goblins and orcs and wargs and almost getting eaten again, and then being carried off by eagles.

But now Bree, Ered Luin,and the whole relative safety of the West, was all firmly on the wrong side of the Mountains. He’d happily curl up in a cook pot for Smaug before he went back through them at the present. If -- and it was unlikely -- but If he could convince Dori and Ori to turn back, they’d still have too much against them to make it through in one piece.

Besides, he’d now thrown his lot in with the Lass.

Possibly not his best notion.

Definitely not his best delivery. Thorin was going to hold that teensy disagreement against him til he was balder than Dwalin. Since there was no avoiding that, there was no point trying to backtrack from his stance.

Which is why he was sitting up in the gathering dark waiting instead of leaning into the softest looking pile of dirt he could find. Fortunately, he wasn’t the only one to have rankled their leader.

Nori and Bifur stretched sore muscles on the boulder they had claimed. They were two days out from the Carrock, and according to the Wizard, at least another day from the home of his friend, whoever that was. Every member of the company was aching and groaning. They had barely stopped since they started climbing down the Carrock, only resting at night long enough to wait out the darkest hours before they continued.

Thorin, Bofur, Fíli and Bilbo regularly scouted both ahead and behind, looking for signs of the wargs they could heard calling.

The could have moved faster, but were limited by the youngest Durin.

Kíli was still weak, but his distinctly not-dead state was more than enough luck to keep their morale afloat while they slogged forward. None of them could even complain so long as the lad was still moving and making jokes.

If only they had something more to eat than the elven crap Bilbo was parsing out to them, the days wouldn’t be so bad. Not that Nori was arguing with Freya managing to secure food for them. Any food was better than none. He just wished it had, well, flavor. He was needy that way. The dried meat had been devoured before they climbed off the giant rock.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, but he and Bifur had spent most of their day indulging in an act of stupidity. They were discussing the perfect meal. Everything they had listed involved a hefty seasoning, be it meat or potato or bread. They had waxed poetic on the subject of excellent ale through most of the afternoon and early evening. They had compared the perfect dessert as they walked beneath the moon and stars. When the moon began to set, Thorin had called a halt beside a stream, and most of the company had instantly piled together to start dozing.

Nori was on watch again because the company’s leader could be a right vindictive bastard when he wanted to. Part and parcel with being King.

Unsurprising.

Supremely annoying.

Nice to see the young princes catching hell for it too, though, their’s was largely verbal.

On top of stealing his sleep, Thorin had charged them with keeping an eye on Freya during the day, so they had been marching at the tail of the group. Bifur was good enough company, especially since they both spoke fast enough iglishmek that they could gossip without calling down the wrath of the others.

He really hoped that Bilbo got his voice back soon so the hobbit could shout down the king’s temper like he so clearly wanted to do.

Being stranded at the end of the company had advantages. Nori was renowned for his habit of watching people, and Bifur was similarly inclined.  So he had easily seen the warmly protective looks Dwalin kept throwing at his little brother. He had seen the distinctly less innocent looks aimed at the warrior when he looked away. Nori had also caught the approving appraisal that passed between Dwalin and Balin on the subject.

That was no way to start a courtship. They were getting the steps a bit out of order. Besides, if Dori noticed, he’d have a conniption. There’d be yelling, maybe hitting. Didn’t need that while they were on the run from wargs.

Next time Nori got a chance to talk at Ori he’d try and steer them in a more productive direction. Hopefully towards an obliging clump of trees.

No sense getting into all of Dori’s formalities if they didn’t dance well together.

It was possible that Nori and Dori had different opinions on these things.

Bifur had asked when he caught Nori grinning, and had to explain the whole convoluted mess of his and Dwalin’s history.

The disaster of trying to rob the sleeping guards, and resorting to a fool’s gambit to avoid those knuckle dusters being introduced to his jaw. Kissing the enormous guardsman had been far more pleasant than shattered bones. They’d spent a couple years running into each other in dark corners, but they never even talked about anything else. Wouldn’t have been seemly for the captain of the King’s Guards to be found canoodling with one of the more prolific thieves in the Blue Mountains.

After about a decade they learned to keep their trousers on around each other. That was around the same time Nori started hearing rumours about assassins and poisons and the princes. He told Dwalin, naturally.

He was an honorable thief.

For a while after, whenever he heard something important, he’d get himself arrested to pass it on without suspicion. Then it all went to hell in the worst ways possible. So he buggered off to safer, greener pastures, and Dwalin had been in a strop at him ever since.

Bifur smirked through the whole story, but didn’t push. He may have been crass, but he had good manners.

Nori’d been less pleased to be caught admiring a certain miner’s finer features. Bifur actually had to define that particular sign in khuzdul, and Nori was still convinced that it had been invented by the dwarf. Iglishmek rarely got so… specific.

Funniest of all to watch was the king and the hobbit. No, wrong, funniest was watching Glóin watch the two of them. Since the banker held the purses, he was waiting for any sign that one of them needed to be paid out to a winner. The fact that Glóin had kept the purses and the book, but not his pack or best knife was earning him the wholehearted mocking of the others.

But the pair in question were just ridiculous.

They would scowl and stomp and refuse to be within arm’s reach of each other. They snapped at anyone who tried to speak to them. In Bilbo’s case, literally, since he couldn’t say more than a word without coughing. But whenever the other couldn’t see, they were pining like lovesick elves. And Maker preserve anyone that got in the way when one or the other winced in pain. The other half would just suddenly appear next to them, angrily fussing.

Dori’s complaints about the impropriety of laughing and making jokes while hunted by wargs had only made Nori and Bifur laugh harder.

There was no better time for it. Imminent disaster made it all funnier. Only other option would have been honest, and he couldn’t have that.   

“ _AtleastyoutwoturnaroundwhenIpee. Unlikestupid_ Dwalin _. Youcanturnback. Igluedmyarmbacktogether. Thankgodfornailglue. AndthatInevercleanmypurse. AndIhaveaspare_ ”

He glanced over his shoulder. Frey had finished her business and was sitting at the shallow stream, refilling a waterskin. He could just see her in the last light of the moon. She dumped water over her leg a few times. Muttering, she picked at the fabric and slowly peeled it off her skin. After a stream of what Nori would bet his braids was obscene, she got the fabric to let go, and scooped more water over it.

“ _Fuckinghell. Thatsnotgood_.”

An enormous roar rattled the night. Not a warg. And not happy.

“ _GoddammitIbetthatsBeorn_.”

Nori got to his feet. He dragged Bifur up as well, holding his staff tighter, and waited for her to join them. The rest of camp was already established. Not that there was more than a fire and a bit of an area cleared of large rocks and branches. Wasn’t as if they had anything else to do.

She stepped beside them with a pinched look a moment later. The moon was vanishing behind the mountain and stealing the last light.

They’d be up at dawn. He nodded to Fíli to confirm he’d wake the lad for second watch and settled in to wait for the end of his shift or a bloody attack. Whichever came first.

 

* * *

 

 She tied another pretty ribbon on the long stretch of elvish rope and admired her work. One by one she attached the lengths of ribbon to dwarven wrists. She’d arranged all of them in a lovely rainbow and had been nice enough to align each dwarf with an appropriate color. Thorin got blue obviously.

Bilbo got added to the end with the rope itself and she ignored his hissing and whining about how it stung. There wasn’t another choice. They needed to go to Erebor, and since she couldn’t trust the dwarves not to wander off and get eaten she just had to duckling them along.

Everyone smiled appreciatively at her excellent plan.

They walked into the forest.

It wasn’t pleasant, but every time they killed one of the orcs they encountered, they exploded and she found food and new weapons. Most of them were garbage, but she could sell them later when they went to town.

There were still spiders.

Mirkwood always had spiders. These seemed big in the distance, but when she had to fight them they shrank down to scale and she smooshed them beneath her boots.

Much better.

Much easier.

Bilbo was still whining at the back of the line. Apparently the rope was burning him. Silly hobbit.

She had to take his knife away to get him to stop trying to escape. She gagged him. The whining was annoying and she had more important things to do. Like get them all to Erebor in one piece and defeat a dragon.

Not a problem. Smaug would do what she told him to.

She smiled at the pretty necklace she was wearing. Well, she smiled at the pretty pendant on the chain.

Bilbo was whining again. Then he suddenly wasn’t.

With a new knife in his hands he attacked her, clawing at hair and face until she managed to get out one of the blades Fíli had given her. The others weren’t helping. Just watching. She buried it to the hilt in his stomach and wrenched it back out again. He fell bleeding and whimpering.

She picked up Sting and his knife, plus the bag of coins and a wheel of cheese.

“Much better.” Fíli said.

Yes, this would be much better.

She wandered back along to the line to peck a kiss against his lips and tweak his moustache.

The others all nodded along.

With a tug on their leash, she kept walking through the forest til it faded through grey into the pale gold glow of dawn.

 

* * *

 

“Doin’ alright there lass?” Nori asked quietly. She waved him away and glared til he shrugged. Dark circles ringed her eyes. She hadn’t slept well. That was obvious. Of course, on the edge of camp, away from the fire, without a coat or cloak and listening to wargs howling in the dark wasn’t exactly a recipe for a comforting rest.

This seemed like something more. Now that Nori was looking at her properly instead of while scurrying across the wild, she seemed shaky, and was definitely wincing whenever she shifted. He’d caught her leaning against trees whenever they paused.

None of that mattered much compared to what else he’d noticed.

She’d hardly said anything since yesterday.

So Nori kept close, trying to find the cause.

They were waiting while the wizard found his friend’s home, which had left them resting for a moment while he looked for signs.

“Why?” Dwalin said as introduction. Nori jumped half out of his trousers at the sudden arrival.

“Might need a bit more’n that. Why what?”

“Why are ye protectin’ her?”

“Aw, an’ here I thought you were comin’ to chat about my dear nadadith.”

Dwalin continued as if Nori hadn’t spoken at all.

“I always took ya for loyal. Even after you -- even after all that.” He frowned.

“Still am.”

“Thorin doesn’t like her.”

“Doesn’t have to. Lass saved his life.” Unconvinced, Dwalin waited for Nori to continue. “She did. After you n Bifur got up to go give a hand to the lads, she got up, ran off the tree for somethin’ -- didn’t see what.”

“Yes, I saw her in the fight.”

“Yeah. An’ after, she got back on the tree and got Thorin off that branch.”

“How? She isn’t strong enough to lift him.”

“Didn’t.”

“So how--”

“Climbed out on one that was about to snap itself off and kill her, and let Thorin climb right up. They near fell, and she screamed something awful doing it. Then Thorin pulled her up an put his knife at her throat.”

“Her an’ Bilbo --”

“Then he dropped her off that tree.” Nori ploughed on.

“She’s threatened us.”

“Nope. She hasn’t.”

“Come on, ya aren’t tellin’ me tha’ lass is comin’ along ta help.” Dwalin’s brogue always thickened when he was frustrated. Nori watched him out the corner of his eye. “After tha’ mess in the hobbit hole? An’ the knife?”

Nori would have preferred to let Dwalin sort it out on his own, but he didn’t feel like waiting the hours that could waste. Frey was leaning against a tree trunk with her eyes closed, but the rest of the Company was far enough away not to be paying attention. He set a hand on the Guardsman’s chest.

“Dwalin? I ever lie ta ya?”

“No, you just ran off without tellin us about tha last plot on the princes.”

Nori snatched his hand back. He knew he ought let it slide. Nothing good would come of talking about it for the hundredth time. But his mouth got away from him for a moment.

“You know why I left, bazir binuzrabul.” Not that they were going to talk about it. Dwalin conceded that without offering any kindness.

Thirty some odd years past and Dwalin still held it against him.

“You really need me to walk ya through it all lulkh? Actually look and think for half a minute an’ you’re gonna see it on yer own. She’s an idiot, I’ll grant, but just cause it doesn’t look it, doesn’t mean she’s not tryin’ damn hard to help.”

He grabbed Frey’s arm and hauled her out of her impromptu nap, half dragging her through the rest of the company and away from Dwalin’s scowl.

It was midmorning on the fourth day after their lucky break with the eagles when they found the house of Gandalf’s friend. They were exhausted. They wanted nothing more than to reach a destination. Then they could give everyone a chance to take a quick breath and sort out how they were going to continue.

But instead of marching up and saying good morning to whoever Gandalf’s mysterious associate was, he’d insisted they go up to him slowly. A few at a time in fact.

He and Bilbo were to go first, to meet this Beorn person, which went over spectacularly with Thorin.

The Wizard assigned an order to everyone else’s arrival, instructing them to come when he whistled. Nori chuckled at the way they’d all just agreed to come along like pups. They really were looking forward to sleeping with a roof over their heads.

Naturally him and Bif were set to come along last, guarding Frey until the end. They were supposed to leave her behind. Leave her on the outside of the hedge while they decided if the risk was worth their host meeting her.

One advantage to the leagues deep language gap was that they could talk about her without worrying about being polite. It was a short, rude chat to be sure. Thorin insisted they wait and appraise this person before they acknowledge her presence.

She stared when Gandalf walked away with the still mute hobbit. She frowned and grumbled when Thorin and Balin followed after a whistle.

By the time Bombur nodded and walked off, she was muttering non stop.

“ _Thisisbadboys. Thisisntcanon. Eithercanon. Itssortabook. Butnotreally. Wewereatthe_ Carrock _nottheaerie. TherehavebeenwargshuntingandIheard_ Beorn. _Butwearentbeingchasedbyhim. Justfuckingdandy. Becausethiswasntenoughfunbefore._ ”

Bifur turned from watching the woods and glanced at her, still sitting on the ground.

“ _Wearesofuckedifthisisbothcanons. Ifitsbothatonce? Imfucked. HowdoIknowwhatscoming? BecauseIneedthistobeharder. JustGah. FuckyouPJ. FuckyoutooTolkien_.” She scrubbed her palms over her face and shook her hair out of her eyes.

“Durinultarg mê sasakhabiya gurud.”

Nori had already opened his mouth to concur, when she looked right at Bifur and repeated.

“Durinultarg me sask _somethingsomething_?”

Bifur smiled sideways at her.

“Asakhabi.”

“Asakhabi.”

“Gurud.”

“Gurud.”

“Durinultarg asakhabi gurud.”

“Durinultarg aska -- asakhabi gurud?”

“Aye, ya do lass.” Nori laughed as she finished. He smacked Bifur in the shoulder, “Don’t get ‘er in more trouble with Thorin.”

“Shugim.”

“ _OkaybutwhatdidIsay_?”

“Thorin’s been hell on us as it is.”

“Hu mahadrulni.”

“Durinultarg asakhabi gurud?” She repeated. “Durin? Thorin?”

“Gonna be hard enough to talk him round to this without you teachin her Khuzdul.”

“Bifur! Nori!” They turned, “ _WhatdidIsay? Helpmeouthere._ Durinultarg asakhabi gurud.”

Nori watched her gesturing and her confusion, then took pity and began walking her through it. Durin was easy enough. So was beard. Look terrible failed a few times, but pointing at her face and faking a dead expression got through. He assumed so based on the gesture. She’d used it a few times before.

Bifur was choosing a new phrase when they heard the whistle. With a last glance at the woods around them, and a universal ‘stay there’ gesture, they walked away from her.

“ _Soilljuststayherethen? GuardforOrcs? Youknowyoudidntactuallyexplainright? YoureluckyIknoweverything_ Nori _youstarheadedwanker_!”

That sounded more like the obstinate whelp they had come to know. She was probably just exhausted. Maybe trying not to offend Thorin. Reasonable and smart choices.

Inside the hedgerow they found a sprawling collection of buildings, fields, animals, and trees. All of it neatly tended and well defended. As they came around a bank of trees they found the rest of the company in a clump behind Gandalf. He wouldn’t call it cowering -- dwarves didn’t do that -- but maybe sheltering was the way to put it.

The wizard was talking to the biggest man Nori had ever seen.

Nori had travelled. He had met a lot of folk.

Biggest man Nori had ever seen.

The fellow made Gandalf look small.

They joined the others and bowed, introducing themselves and getting waved off before they could reach the customary ‘at your service.’ Beorn instead rounded back on Gandalf and rumbled, “Finish up and we’ll see how I feel about your request.”

Nori saw the way Kíli was leaning into Fíli, and couldn’t have missed the glazed look. All of them looked skittish and exhausted.

“Unless,” Beorn continued, “there are more of you hiding out there? Is this all of you finally?”

“Yes.” Thorin said with finality. “Fourteen.”

“Fifteen.” Nori’s weren’t the only eyes that widened at Beorn’s grouchy retort. “You forgot the wizard.”

The company exhaled.

Gandalf hesitated, but continued weaving the story. He explained their rescue by the eagles and the flight through the night to the Carrock on the edge of Beorn’s land. Their lost supplies were lamented with just enough tragedy to call forth a bit of sympathy, not enough to seem grasping.

The story concluded with the healing of Kíli, who looked uncomfortable as he was inspected by the huge man.Then that gaze shifted to Bilbo. Thorin twitched in an automatic need to protect him.

“So you challenged the orcs?”

Bilbo squirmed and pursed his lips, tweaking his nose. But as it was obvious that Beorn was waiting for answer, their hobbit gently cleared his throat and tried to speak.

He squeaked instead.

“What’s wrong with you, bunny?” The company snickered at the nickname. Bilbo squawked trying to protest, which only made him cough harder. Thorin uncorked a skin to place in his hand. When he had himself back under control he raised his chin at Beorn and nodded shortly.

“Very well then.” The giant said at length, “I have no love of dwarves. You are cruel and violent. You are blind to those you deem less than your own.” He looked down at Bilbo, “But orcs I hate more. You need rest and food in safety while your injured recover their strength. The orcs will not stop hunting you. But nor will they enter my lands.”

To a one, the Company relaxed. Even Thorin allowed the usual tension of his stance to loosen slightly.

Their host surveyed them, about to speak further, when he was interrupted.

A newly arrived horse knickered a few feet away, and Beorn immediately ran a gentle hand over their haunch, almost looking like he was listening. Must have been, in fact. Because when the horse stopped whickering, Beorn snarled at them all and strode away towards the gap in the hedge. The one they had entered through.

There were a few awkward breaths while they watched the receding giant. The quiet didn’t last long.

“Ah.”

“So much for that.”

“This isn’t going to be good.”

“Nope.”

“Did he talk to that horse, wizard?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He is a shape-changer. A giant bear.”

“He’s a what!”

“And you brought us here?”

“Why didn’t you tell us before now?”

“That was him we heard in the woods?”

“Should we go help him?”

“What can she do to him, he’s enormous.”

“I think the bear can handle itself.”

“Himself.”

“That’s the one.”

“Should we go help her?”

“Is he gonna try an eat us?”

“Gather our things.” Thorin began, looking around the area, “We will likely need to move on tonight. We will attempt to purchase new supplies from this man, if she does not provoke him into expelling us all immediately.”

“I heard a stream comin in,” Dwalin said, “We can at least refill the skins.”

“You will not be able to cross the forest without supplies.” Gandalf declared. “And there are no others to trade with in these parts. Unless you wish to travel back to the mountains and ask the goblins nicely if you can have your bedrolls back.”

They heard a distant yelp.

“I believe our host has found the lass.” Balin groused.

Bifur rammed an elbow into Nori’s side to get his attention and asked if he’d left her a weapon. Shaking his head, he couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that she was unarmed. On the one hand, Frey would probably try to stab him. On the other, he’d just left her defenseless.

Against a bear.

He hadn’t made up his mind before they heard the faint echoes of an angry voice they all knew too well. Thorin cursed colorfully and at length. He had a point; last thing they needed was for her to anger Beorn. They needed his help.

Gandalf huffed and busied himself looking for his pipe, or his coin purse, or whatever it was a wizard pretended was interesting when a giant looked ready to eat the lot of them.

And didn’t that fly in the face of sense. A wizard looking cowed. And the bear upset for who knew what reason.

Then Nori realized that they’d been asked if there were any more of them.

And the company had lied.

Slung over his shoulder, slapping him in the back, was Frey.

“ _Dammitall_ Beorn _wouldyoujustputmedown? Icanwalkfine._ ”

“She knows his name too.” Nori turned at Fíli’s voice. The prince was still subtly playing crutch to his brother, but had an oddly appraising look as he watched their host vanish into the house. He hadn’t said a word to them, not so much as looked at them.

“Gather the--” Thorin began, at the same time Bilbo tried to speak. The hobbit’s pathetic painful chirp claimed their leader’s attention; a glance and a nod was all it took for Nori to confirm a plan.

Nori, Bifur, Kíli and Fíli moved closer to the still open door. The quick shrill shriek moved them all quite a bit faster. Bifur got there first, peeking around the corner, then jerking out of the way as their host reappeared.

“Why did you not treat her injuries?”

That was pointed at Thorin. Most of the company winced; the rest just looked confused.

The day was just getting better and better.

Nori had known she had a few cuts, but it hadn’t seemed like anything critical; what he’d seen looked like scrapes. Except, the man wouldn’t have been so angry about a scratch. And Nori had spent the day trying to tell if she was injured.

He should have tried harder.

“She is not a member of my company.”

“Yet she travelled with you.”

“She has followed us for some time. She has no association with us.”

“So you would allow her wounds to fester because she is not of your kind?” His voice was dangerously soft. No one answered, hearing the echo of his previous accusation.. “The wizard says you travelled at speed from the Carrock. That one,” he pointed to Kíli, “has been well tended. Which of you helped her to travel?”

Nori was going to need to have words with his brothers later about selling out family. Both of them stared at him after Beorn’s query, which was more than enough to draw his attention.

“You let her walk on that leg?”

Fast talking his way out of imprisonment was one of his strong points, and Nori knew it. But in the face of someone three times his size, flexing huge muscles as his hands clenched in aggravation was enough to render him mute.    

Beorn drew himself up to his full height.

“Get off my land.”

His voice rumbled, and not even Gandalf argued when Beorn went back inside. Nori could almost hear him talking to Frey. Could just barely hear her reply. If he’d tried he could have picked out words. Instead, most of his attention was on Thorin as he made a choice. A terse nod and a quiet, “We’re leaving,” was all he gave.

They needed supplies and a rest, but not at the cost of a fight. As they always had, the dwarves would have to find their way alone.  

“ _Whatsgoingon? -- owmotherfuckerthathurts -- wherearethedwarves_?” The yelling carried better.

Nori cinched the strap of his knife belt, and joined up with the others.

“Ori, Dori, refill the skins at the stream over there. Everyone else, gather what you can that seems edible as we get out of here.”

They barely made it ten steps.

“No. No. No. Dwarf! Thorin! Bilbo! _Getbackhere._ Nori!” He spun in place. She was a damn sight paler than she had been, and was obviously favoring her left leg as she came after them. There was a crumpled mess of bloody bandage in her hand which she was cramming into her pack. The leg of her trousers was torn open, and as soon as she had a free hand, she used it to hold the fabric together.

His death wish theory seemed more likely with every step she took.

Especially when Beorn stormed after her.

Frey was hobbling at first, but broke into a run when Beorn emerged. Shouting, she got ahead of the group and held her arms out to the side to corrall them all. Nori tried to come up with a descriptor for her that didn’t make him feel bad about ignoring her injuries, but kept coming back to ‘alarmingly pale.’

Beorn had a point about their treatment of her.

Thorin made to move past her and she hopped into his path.

“ _Whereareyougoing? Youhavestayhere. Firstoff: Theresabattlelaterandyouneedhim. Second:_ Kíli. T _hird: orcsandwargsand_ Azog.” She was balancing on her good leg, gingerly catching her balance with the other.

“You said she was not a part of your company.”

“She is not.” Thorin addressed Beorn officially. “She has followed of her own will.”

“Was she with you when the orcs attacked?”

Nori wanted to amend the king’s curt reply with a mention of what she had done for them, but angering either of them didn’t seem wise.

“And she was injured then?”

“So it would seem.”

Beorn growled at them and rolled his shoulder with bared teeth. Nori hoped he’d imagined the way it grew larger for an instant. Even Gandalf stepped back. He reached for Frey, clearly done with the conversation.

She dodged away from his hand and into the group of dwarves.

“I go dwarf.” Another reach, and she ducked under his arm to take refuge behind Bifur. “No! Me! I go dwarf!”

“Dwarves not dwarf.”

She nodded at Kíli.

“I go dwarves.” And she crossed her arms in a clear sign of refusal.

“You need to stay here.”

“Dwarves go? Me go. I go.”

“Your leg is festering and the dwarves have no care to tend it.”

He reached out to grab her again, and she scurried backwards, manhandling an exasperated Balin in front of her.

“She does not speak Common.” Beorn grumbled.

“You know, we’ve noticed that.” Nori mumbled. Regretted that instantly.

“What does she speak?”

“Don’t know.” Nori answered, since stubborn wouldn’t really count as a language.

She avoided his hand again, hurrying towards Kíli and Fíli. “Beorn. _Stopthat! Stoptryingtopickmeup_ Beorn. No. Dwarves not go. Please. Please? He? Kíli?” She poked him hard in the side. He squawked and clutched at his bandaged wounds. “Orcs! Wargs. Azog. Dwarves not go. Orcs!” She stumbled away from him, pointing beyond the hedge, and seemed to run out of words. “Orcs.” She held up her fist. “Dwarves.” She held out her other hand flat.

And she smashed her fist into her palm over and over shouting “Orcs. Dwarves. Orcs. Dwarves. Orcs. Dwarves.”  

When she retreated again, out the back of the Company, with Beorn in pursuit, she tripped. Yelping and hopping away, she clapped a hand over her thigh.

“ _Ohmotherof -- itsfine. Justbleedingagain. Itsfine. Hrrrrrrmmm. Breathingisgood. Keepbreathing._ No! _Stopdoingthat_ Beorn! No!”

Nori stepped closer and caught her elbow to keep her from tipping sideways.  

“The dwarves are not welcome here. You will not go. Because of your leg.” Beorn pointed.

“ _Lookpapabear. Iknowmylegisfuckinginfected. Idliketostay. But_ Dwarves go?”

“You will not go.”

“I Go. I follow. _Itssortamythingnow. Ifollowtheseassholesplaces_.”

Beorn swept a hand down to grab her and she had to double back, yanking away from Nori. She got back to the center of the Company and tried to stand up straight. It wasn’t going to help against the giant looming over them all, but she tried. When Beorn’s threatening growl set them all retreating, she clung to Dwalin’s coat to stay upright. The hand that had been at her leg shot up to point at him.

“Beorn! _Stopthat. Imeanit._ ”

He froze.

Freya looked smug until she noticed the rest of the company had stopped as well. Dwalin looked down at her, then to her leg, then back to her hand, which was covered in blood. She tracked his gaze.

Dwalin caught her arm to take some of her weight. She shrugged him off.

“ _Ohfuckyou. Imawoman. Idealwithworsethanthiseachmonth. Itsfine. Youdidntcarebefore. Stoppretendingtonow._ ”

Nori watched as she and the shape-changer competed in obstinacy. She broke it. Rolling her neck one way then the other with loud pops and cracks, she squared her shoulders. With a tilt of her head that seemed to be a challenge she nodded. Then she spun and headed for the gap in the hedge. It had to be a bluff. He had never seen her bluff before this, but surely not even she was stupid enough to walk alone into the wild like that.

Except she was almost to the hedge.

Frey didn’t turn back.

Not until Beorn caved. “The dwarves can stay.”

“Dwarves not go?” she shouted over her shoulder.

Beorn nodded. Frey nodded. The company waited.

With a gesture from Beorn, they all started to edge towards the house again. Frey skirted around him, sticking close to the company. Nori -- actually, any of them -- could see her flinching with each step. The four previous conspirators plotted again, slowing down to find a plan. Bifur was going to walk by Kíli. Fíli and Nori, least likely to get hit for it, were going to grab Frey.

It took them too long to sort it out.

Dwalin caught her by the pack when she got close, and swept her into his arms. While she hissed out a long breath and paled further, he caught Nori’s eye, just long enough to be intentional. Then he strode off towards the house, ignoring her efforts to get her feet back on the ground.  

Thorin had stopped walking. He opened his mouth to shout, but never got the chance.

“That little hedgehog is very protective of your Company Thorin Oakenshield.” Beorn interrupted, “Only a dwarf would refuse to return that.”

The shapechanger followed Dwalin, telling him where to take her. Nori watched the King. For the first time since before the Goblins, he looked like he might be thinking instead of reacting. Recovery be damned, they were going to have to have this conversation today.

 

* * *

 

Chaos at this level would have been perfectly normal at a festival or a market day. It would have been reasonable in the busy streets of the towns of men to have this much bickering. In a battle, this flood of insults would have been expected.

But this was just the Company seated at a table, having a chat.

A long overdue chat.

There were three groups. Thorin, Glóin, Bofur and Dori were firm in their distrust. Fíli, Kíli, Bifur and Nori were adamant in their opposition. Dwalin and the rest were just listening.

Much as he’d like to pretend that Nori’s comment had nothing to do with it, Dwalin knew that there was a reason he had been a bit more open-minded that morning. Not that he’d made a decision, but he was listening to both factions. As for carrying Frey into the shapechanger’s home, that had been expedience born of battlefield experience. He’d seen enough -- Mahal’s sake, he’d had enough infected wounds to know how much it could hurt to walk on one.

Hers wasn’t fatal or anything like that, but that didn't make it pleasant. And it had needed to be dealt with soon as it could so it didn’t turn into something worse. Before Beorn had kicked him out of the room and into the main hall with the rest of the company, he had watched the water sluice off her leg tinged pink.

She needed stitches. First the shapechanger would have to lance that infection.

He’d listened with half an ear while the rest shouted, trying to make sure that she was being treated based on whatever sounds drifted through the door. So far he hadn’t heard more than one breathy squeak.

He’d heard more than enough from the lot he was sitting with though.

“Because she did save my life Uncle!” Kíli shouted, pulling Dwalin’s attention once again. “The goblin had me pinned, and Fi wouldn’t have made it back in time.”

“An she saved mine from tha’ Warg!”

“We do not know she did not alert the wargs. Her arrival preceded them by too little.”

“We’d chased her off every time she showed up!”

“Why would she continue to return if she isn’t trying to help?”

“She’s watching us. Spying.”

“We have faced more dangers on this quest than expected, Nori. She knew of our quest before she arrived in Bag End. What’s to say she is not tracking us?”

“Because she’s not!”

“A fine argument brother.”

“Bugger off Dori, she’s not. You really think that little thing knows how to track?”   

“Obviously she does as she was able to follow us from the Shire.”

“And, every time she showed up something awful happened soon after!”

“Not every time, Bofur.”

“Most of em, Nori.”

“Of course they do, she’s tried to warn us about them.”

“You don’t know that.”

“After Rivendell she--

“She threw Bilbo!”

“I’m not denying that! But it is possible that --” Kíli cut off when Bilbo began pounding his fist on the table. He kept it up til they all looked, then slid a piece of paper over to Ori.

Their scribe dutifully took it and read aloud, “She was scared when she pushed me. Terrified, I’d say. Reluctant too. I don’t know why she did, but it wasn’t her first plan. And in the cave, she tried to get you all out.”

“And we didn’t listen.” Nori finished. Bilbo agreed.

“She tried grabbing me when the floor started to go.”

“Then why did she run into the fight with Azog?”

“Maybe we should ask her that. Instead of just guessing.”

“She will not be able to explain.” Dwalin had seen that look in his King’s eyes before. Too many times. Every time they’d found a new plot against the boys, it had come back. Everytime he heard a new set of a lies from a new ambassador or supposed prophet, it got darker.

Thorin had been betrayed by false seers too many times in his life, starting with the one that told his grandfather no harm would come to Erebor in his lifetime. Playing on the superstitions of dwarves, one of them had come to Ered Luin, speaking in tongues and whispering of a dark fate on the horizon. And it was, Dwalin had to admit. The guards had found that bastard in the lads’ bedchamber, slipping poison into the water pitcher.

Thorin had run the man through with enough force to chip the stone of the wall. It had only gotten worse as time went on, as rumors of the decline of the Longbeards spread.

Conspiracy had claimed too many, and Thorin held himself responsible for every death. Especially Vili.

“She does not speak, so she cannot explain. Even if she is, as you have suggested, a seer, that does not mean she has our interests in mind. And we cannot know since she cannot communicate.”

Dwalin took a drink in the harsh silence. Cream. Of course. Cream. Couldn’t have been mead or ale, just plain cream. As the tankard was set back on the table, he could see something passing between Bifur and the princes.

Finally, when the air seemed ready to crack apart from the tension, Fíli spoke for the first time since the arguing erupted. “She can. She does. Tell them Bifur.”

“Uzbad Dain du Erebor.” His voice didn’t waver, but he said it to the table.  

The chaos was back. Dwalin roared a denial, slamming his hand onto wood with enough force to rattle his cream. Glóin was swearing oaths a fresh allegiance. Ori yelled wordlessly before starting on fervent refusals. Only the line of Durin was calm. The younger two from a place of foreknowledge. The king from shock.

Again they were brought to silence by the furious pounding of the hobbit’s fist on the table top. He gestured a question. Nobody wanted to answer. None of them wanted to explain that implication.

“Thor--- _rin_?” The hobbit asked, voice breaking up to a near-soundless chirp at the end.

“My cousin Dain is in line for the throne.” His eyes flicked to his nephews. “After Kíli.”

It took Bilbo twelve seconds to react. Dwalin counted as their burglar’s face hardened.

Bilbo finally looked away, snatching back the paper and charcoal from Ori which he began to scribble on at once.

“She said the same to me, Thorin.” Fíli said, “Then she -- well, she vowed not to let it happen. Near as I can tell, she vowed to see you crowned King under the Mountain.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. She told Bifur about Dain when she saw him at Rivendell. Bifur told me. I asked her about it,” Fíli shoved his brother to cut off whatever he was starting to say, “and she said that she was going to Erebor to prevent it.”

“She also mentioned Azog coming after you.” Kíli added.

“That he was going to --” The crown prince let the sentence stop.

“Which is why the two of you decided to charge the orcs alone, I assume?”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Thorin was still furious. Dwalin was proud. The both of them were dumb as a bag of slag, but he would have done the same had he known. Only issue outstanding was that they hadn’t talked to him about it first. He could have backed them up a bit better.

“Worked out fine.” Kíli sulked, then yelped at the elbow to his injuries, “Hey! That’s not nice nadad. It did work out fine, we’re all alive.”

“And you think that’s enough to warrant trusting her?”

Fíli hesitated, and in the silence, Bofur’s derisive retort exploded the Company back to shouting.  He was getting sick of this. They’d been at it since midday.

Dwalin ignored the insults and yelling, catching the eye of his brother. Balin had shouted questions into the mess the first few times it had happened, but had spent most of his time listening. Now he inclined his head towards Nori and his supporters, then to Óin. That was another convert. He found himself on the receiving end of a pointed gaze, and had to shrug a concession.

He didn’t trust her, but he wanted to know more.

“So how does she know all of it then?” Dori asked.

“Portents don’t get that specific.”

“Visions, then.”

“A seer? Bah.”

“Does it matter how?”

“Of course it matters Ori!”

As they continued to fight, Bilbo strode around the table, creasing the paper again and again. He stood with Dwalin between Thorin and himself and extended the sheet to the King. When it was accepted, he left.

The bruising was an impressive necklace of yellow and purple. His voice was nearly shot, and he was slumped like he’d be happy to sleep for a week. But Dwalin had to like the intractable glare he had leveled at Thorin.

The king would have read the message and chased him down right then, but the door banged open and the shapechanger towered over them.

Beorn’s reappearance shut down the bickering as well. He surveyed them disdainfully. “One of you is a healer.”

“Aye. That’ll be me.”

“I need an additional pair of hands. She is…”’

“Bein’ difficult?” Nori asked with a smirk, blithely ignoring the scowls of the detractors, “We’ve noticed that too. Do you need a healer or just hands?”

“A healer would be better suited to the task.”

Dwalin could see Nori getting ready to lie his braids off, but Óin got there first. The Company’s healer rose from the table with the elvish bag of medicines and gestured for the shapechanger to lead the way. They vanished behind the door, and the fraught tension snapped.

Maybe it would have come back in a moment, Dwalin expected so. Before it had a chance, the wizard wandered in from wherever he had gone off to. After an awkward silence, they split apart into smaller groups.  Gandalf commandeered Bilbo, taking him across the room for a conversation that was half low murmurs and half written.

Balin, Ori, Glóin and Bifur and Bombur claimed more bread and huddled their heads in discussion. It was easy to see Bifur and Ori concurring, and bringing the others along with the argument.

Dori and Bofur dragged stools to sit closer to Dwalin and the rest.

“Just because the lass helped you once don’t mean she’s on our side, Fíli.” Bofur said patronizingly.

“Thorin is correct, she has not given enough proof of her loyalty.”

“What more do ya want Dori?” Nori snapped, “Was she supposed ta duel Azog, Bofur? Would that have been enough? Want ‘er to take on Smaug all on her lonesome? Will that bring ya around? Or will ya want her to pop off and reclaim Moria too before ya listen to a word she says?”

“Be quiet, all of you.” The king hissed. His resolve was wavering under the press of exhaustion. Bilbo’s wrecked coughs carried over the other other conversation, and Thorin looked up to check on the hobbit.

Fíli took advantage of the moment.

“Thorin, Uncle, even if you don’t trust her, you need to let me talk to her. We thought she had told us everything important while we were at Rivendell. Dain and Azog seemed like more than enough, then we thought that she followed because of the goblin trap, but…” Fíli looked back to his brother who replied with a substantial grimace. He pressed on, “But she knew Beorn’s name. And on the Carrock she told me that Azog will come back for you, and I believe she knows when that is. I think she knows more, knows all of it. She knows inconsequential things, or maybe they aren’t, and we just think they are. But she knows too much. Our whole quest, I think.”

“She could be lying to manipulate you.”

“She hasn’t yet.”

“Ingadan, you know why I do not have faith in her.”  

“Yes,” he allowed, “but we cannot let the opportunity pass. We will be cautious.”

“And if she asks to travel with the Company in return for whatever she can tell us? Will you gamble with the lives of your companions?”

Dwalin saw the lads wilt. So he answered, “Thorin. If she’s travelling with us, we know where she is and what she’s doing. You can try and leave her behind with the bear, but you and I know it won’t keep her from following. Unless you’re gonna kill her.”

There was a long quiet moment in which the King appraised at them all.

“Uzbadê,” Fíli said eventually, formally, “Have I given you cause to question my loyalty or judgement?” Thorin flinched but shook his head, “Then...please. Trust me on this. I’m willing to vouch for her.” Kíli got shoved in the ribs again to keep him silent.

Dwalin did his best not to seem surprised, and failed fantastically at it.

“Speak to her then, irak-dashat. And tomorrow, we will speak again.”

Thorin rose, crossing to the hobbit who was still hacking and wheezing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof. This is updating later than I wanted because I just couldn't get this conversation to happen, they all kept refusing to talk. Honestly, I'm still not happy, but I'd rather proceed forward. Hopefully I'll be back to updating at a speed I approve of after this.  
> Also, I love every single comment I get, especially concrit. It makes me look at things new ways, and often I'll add little sections addressing what was pointed out. Also, it takes an age to format these for posting, so if you see something I missed, please just let me know.  
> You can come bother me on [Tumblr](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/) any time you want. 
> 
> \-----KHUZDUL-----  
> nadadith : little brother  
> bazir binuzrabul : low bastard  
> lulkh : oaf  
> Durinultarg mê sasakhabiya gurud : Durin’s beard you look terrible  
> Asakhabi : I look  
> Gurud : terrible  
> Durinultarg asakhabi gurud : Durin’s beard I look terrible  
> Shugim : Eh  
> Hu mahadrulni : He’s inside.  
> Uzbad Dain du Erebor : King Dain of Erebor  
> nadad : brother  
> Ingadan : near son  
> Uzbadê : my king  
> irak-dashat : nephew (literally, side-son)


	13. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they spend some time in the land of milk and honey (and bread).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Meph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) is glorious and wonderful and the Best Beta Anywhere and has been keeping me from despairing as this chapter kept nearly killing me.  Also thank you to [Raiyana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana) who was a lovely cheerleader.  There really isn't an explanation of why this chapter took me ages. It just did. Life and other fics and the SofA muses hiding in the back corner. I don't know... but you have it now!

 

“ _Ohfrickingfuuuuuuckyoudicklickingcunt_ Óin. _Thathurt_!”

Kíli cleared his throat uncomfortably and nudged Fíli. With a shrug that turned into a frown at another shriek behind the door, Fíli kept quiet.

They and Nori had come to talk to Frey while Óin worked on her leg. They had thought that  being treated by the indomitable healer would mean they could speak easily. She wouldn’t be able to escape. She would have to sit and listen and hopefully answer their questions with enough detail and coherence that they could take solid information to their uncle.

In retrospect, Fíli should have known the plan was crap as soon as Kíli suggested it.

After all, Kíli had suggested it.

He rubbed at the sore spot on his arm. If he hadn’t deflected it, the mug would have hit him square in the nose.  

Fíli planned to gloss over that part when they spoke with Thorin.

They should have knocked first. If they had, they wouldn’t have been snarled at by Beorn, they wouldn’t have been lectured by Óin, and his arm wouldn’t hurt. They also wouldn’t have seen just how infected her leg was.

Now there was guilt.

Beorn had her leg pinned to the table while Óin was bent over the injury. Their arrival caused her to jolt, which caused Óin to sink a little blade deep in her leg. After clapping a bandage over it, the healer had turned to lecture. Frey had emptied the last of whatever was in the enormous stein and pitched it at Fíli’s head midway through the tirade. She had nice aim.

They fled back to the hall shortly after that. So now they were waiting for a second opportunity.

He was not hopeful about their success in light of their first efforts.

His arm hurt more than he’d expected. Even through his gambeson, it was bruising. If he had moved a little faster, he would have caught it with the vambrace instead.

Kíli snickered at him and tried to put on an innocent face when Fíli rounded on him. “Something to say nadadith?”

“Not a thing nadad’ugmal. Nice catch.”

“Sure you don’t want to propose another excellent plan to almost get us killed?”

“We could always go play keep away with Bilbo and Uncle.” Kíli popped his eyebrows up and grinned. Fíli chuckled.

“I’ve got enough bruises, thanks. You can play that one on your own. But if your stitches slip while you run for cover, Óin’s going to tie you to a chair and lecture til your beard comes in.”

“Wasn’t planning for Thorin to notice what I was doing. It’s called being subtle.”

“Subtle? Sure that’s not elvish?”

”Oh it is, it’s the art of ‘not get caught so you don’t get your arse pummelled.’ See, this is why I’ve always been the smart one, Fí. I know these things.”

Whatever Fíli meant to say was stopped by the short scream in the next room. Óin’s voice, too loud like always was, carried easily.

“Bah! Keep that up lass and I’ll catch the artery next time and I won’t be minded to fix it!”

“ _Sorrysorrysorry_. _Imsorryforthat_ Óin. _Illtrynottomove_. _Butyouarecuttingthingsoffme_. _Andyougavemeboozenotanasthesia_. _Unlessyouhavesecretmorphine_?”

Kíli shoved him and gave him a knowing look it was better not to acknowledge. Instead he looked over his brother’s slouch against the wall.  He was more tired than he wanted to admit. So Fíli walked down the hall, and came back with a small barrel under each arm. Small for Beorn. They were about to be used as chairs. He forced Kíli onto one, knowing his brother would fight it if anything was said. The long sigh as he headed away to find more bread and honey confirmed how much his side was hurting him.

Had anything been said, Kíli would have denied it and probably started doing something stupid, like climbing the pillars or doing backflips to prove he was hale and ready to fight. Which he was not. He was however, an impressive rainbow of bruises.

Fíli had more than enough practice to know how to keep Kíli in line.

He tossed half a loaf of bread at his brother when he returned and slumped onto the second barrel.

“Nori and Bofur?”

“Not yet.”

So they snacked on bread.

Nori and Bofur were… somewhere. The miner had come with them when they first went to talk to Frey, and made a few comments in khuzdul under his breath. Nori hadn’t taken kindly to it, and had dragged him off to argue. Eventually one or both of them would be back. Possibly in need of Óin’s attention.

“So do you have a plan for this?” Kíli asked around a mouthful of bread, “Or are we just going to try barging back in on a half dressed lass and get things thrown at us again? You may have noticed some small faults in that approach.”

“We are going to talk to her.”

“Not really her strong point.”

“We will be patient.”

“Not really our strong point.”

“Are you planning on being helpful brother or just more of this?”

Kíli crammed the last of the bread in his face and smirked. Wonderful.

“Just going to ask her about Dain then?”

“And the dragon. And anything else we can manage to ask and have her understand.”

“And after?”

They both studied the door at the sound of a repeated pounding of wood against wood.

Fíli shrugged, “Then we try to convince her to stop following us.”

Kíli snorted at that and they leaned into the wall to continue their wait. Disagreeable or not, Kíli had a point, they did need some kind of plan to communicate with her once Óin allowed it. Drawing might help. They’d need to recruit Ori or Bilbo though. Neither of the brothers were going to be able to do much more than scribble general shapes. Or maybe they would need to start with more basic language?

He smoothed his beard. He wasn’t sure where to start for that. It wasn’t like they could use translations to help her. Every word she had was born out of context and some ridiculous song and dance. It was like teaching a toddler.  And he needed to ask about specifics and the timelines of future events.

Maybe he could convince Dwalin to hand over his flask after they were done. They were going to need it. Or maybe Beorn would share whatever they had poured into Freya.

“You know she’s going to follow no matter what we say, brother.” Fíli decided against answering that. “Ha. Well, this could be worse you know.”

“How so? And why are you… giggling?”

“I was just --” Kíli broke off to laugh, “just thinking, She’s been following us since the Shire, right? So she’s probably been trying to find us for even longer. What if--” more giggling, “what if she’d pulled what she did, but at Ered Luin?”

“They would have thrown her from the city. Why is this funny to you?”

“You aren’t -- I mean, what if amad heard about ‘Dain of Erebor’ before we left?” His smile was about to split his face. “Really. Nadad, just start thinking about what _our amad_ would have done to Thorin if she heard about that…”

Grinning back, Fíli finally saw what Kíli was getting at, “She’d have chased him round the mountain with her hammer.”

“To start! Probably would have cornered him in the main hall with Deathless in her other hand and started in on the lecture.”

“Think we’d have been able to get to the stables before she turned on us?”

“Wouldn’t matter! Even if we did! She’d have chased us down and dragged us back by the beards.”

“What beard?”

“Itrik hu.”

He laughed at his brother’s retort.

“We’d have to split up.”

“Good point Fí, she can’t chase us both at once.”

“Of course, whoever get’s caught wouldn’t see the outside of the house for about a decade. And wouldn’t be allowed out of the mountain for about five.”

“Yeeaaah, but the other one would probably still be running when they hit Rhun. Don’t worry Fí, I’d have told you all about it when I got back.” Fíli smacked him in the arm. Kíli retaliated with another laugh, “How did Uncle convince her not to come along? Dwalin refused to tell me.”

“You didn’t hear? I mean, you didn’t hear it from wherever you were at the time?”

“I was on watch Fíli! They weren’t _that_ loud!”

He snorted on a laugh and was about to launch into the story of that minor familial battle when the door swung open with a bang. Óin stalked out with his bag of supplies and a furious expression, without a word to them.

They stood awkwardly in the hall before deciding that they couldn’t possibly make a worse entrance than the first time, and stepped inside. When they had first seen her, Nori’s cursing had been creative, lengthy, and directed at his own failure to notice the injury in the three days he had been guarding her while they travelled. It was fortunate Nori was somewhere shouting at Bofur instead of seeing her now.

Even Kíli’s good humor evaporated on sight.

She was biting down hard on her fist, and the sheen of sweat was obvious in the cool room. Beorn ignored them, and continued to wrap the bandage around her leg. The first pack of cloth covered an alarming portion of her leg, and he was moving gently, not wrapping it tight enough to hurt.

She was shaking in spite of that. Head to toe.

Fíli looked to his brother, who had brought a hand up to his side with a dark scowl directed at something Fíli couldn’t identify.

The shapechanger finished what he was doing and prepared to lift and move her, but the hissing sound she made stopped him. So he set a blanket beside her and left her where she sat on the table. He was rising up, towering over them with his impressive stature when Oin returned. The healer marched into the almost silent room with a tray of food and a pair of mugs in hand. He set it all on the table, and Frey finally opened her eyes.

“Beorn?” She asked after hesitating over it for a long moment.

“Eat. You will need it.” He placed a thick slice of bread in her hand.

“ _Sureyoudonthaveanycodeine_? _Morphine_? _Idtakeapunchbowlofrawopiumrightnow_.”

Óin checked a bandage on her arm, and was apparently satisfied with whatever was beneath it. He nodded at the work Beorn had done. He was investigating something mostly healed near her ankle when she spoke again, around bread and honey.

“No. No. Óin. _Dontworryaboutthat_. _Itriedtoshavemylegsat_ Rivendell. _Didntwork_. _Stupididea_.” She dismissed his concern, and since it was healing cleanly, he didn’t press. Though, how she had gotten a cut beneath her boot was a puzzle.

Eventually Óin pushed one of the mugs at her. “Right, I’ll go get some tea made for ya to help with the pain. Eat all of that.”

A quick glance kept Kíli in the room with her and Beorn while Fíli chased the Company’s healer into the hallway to ask, “What happened? She was fine. She walked on it for three days.”

“Aye, which is why it was such a mess to clean.”

“Soap?” Well-read Fíli may have been, but he had never been taught much healing beyond how to stop the flow of blood until a real healer could arrive. So the look he received was appropriately judgemental of his ignorance. Which grated. “...Not soap?”

“We had to lance the -- stab -- the infection to get all the pus out, then we had to cut away the dead flesh around the gash. Nori said it was a tree branch as what did it. It was a rough cut. Lass has got a fever started, and I know many a dwarf that would have sat down and cried rather than walk on that leg. She didn’t hardly acknowledge it until we started treating it. She made up for lost time after that, which is how I stabbed her thrice more. But still impressive she kept up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m on your side about this now, lad. I’ll bring some tea.”

“That’s five.” he muttered as the healer left. Six if he was reading Bilbo right. Ori and Dwalin were also leaning in her favor. Balin was going to keep quiet, but he was leaning even further.

To convince the others, he needed new arguments.

It seemed that no one had moved while he had been gone. Freya hadn’t even thrown anything at Kíli. His brother must have kept quiet.

“Frey?” He asked from a respectable distance.

“Fíli. Kíli.”

“You plan to speak to her?” The man growled.

“We need to in order to convince the others to trust her.”

“Trust.”

“Yes, not all of them do yet.” Kíli added.

“Is that why she was not treated?”

“We did not know she was in need,” Fíli defended, “We were not aware of her injury, she did not comment on it, and when I did try to check after she indicated she was in pain, she rejected the offer. If I had known the severity, I would have insisted.”

“Even if the others objected.” Kíli said defiantly.  

“I have seen creatures walk for days on injuries worse than this.” Beorn allowed. “I have also seen lesser wounds kill far stronger men than she.”

“Our healer is very talented, and has elvish supplies.” Fíli had the sudden feeling that he was back in one of Balin’s lectures, being taken to task on formal negotiations with hostile parties. A quick tilt of his head reminded him of how large Beorn was. Maybe the sensation wasn’t too far off the mark. “And I hope that there will not be further need, but if she sustains any further injury while travelling with us, we will be sure to check them.”

“I was told she was not a member of your company.”

“She wasn’t before.” he stressed. Kíli had the right of it; like it or not, she’d be coming along with them.

“You are not like most dwarves.” Beorn concluded after a long consideration.

Fíli restrained a smirk. “Yes I am.”

The room had a strange feeling after that. Kíli was flicking his eyes between his brother and Beorn. Fíli madly hoped he hadn’t managed some slight that would see all the dwarves thrown out of the hedge on the asses before the sun had set. Maybe Beorn would have. Maybe he was about to take offense. Maybe he was about to laugh.

But whatever he was about to do, it was aborted when Freya spoke.

“ _Areyoutalkingaboutmeoverthere_? _BecauseIreallyfuckinghatethat_.”

The mug was back down and she had abandoned the food. She had the blanket clenched in fists around her waist, and she was swaying, but she was standing. This looked more like the follower that had Thorin convinced she was trying to kill them all in the night. She had that intractable glower back. Yes, she was visibly trembling, yes she was too pale, but her jaw was set. She managed one step, and that elicited a high gasp.

Beorn was a very large man. He could have crossed back to her in a single stride had Fíli not slipped past him faster than the shapechanger could respond.

There was no asking, Fíli just put her on the bench as carefully as he could before sitting himself. Kíli joined them, though he remained standing. The plate of food was slid next to her hand as Beorn protectively sat down behind her.

She pushed it away, gesturing a question to Fíli with a terse, “Words?”

“Yes, Frey. Thorin asked us to talk to you.”

“Words. Talk. _Arethosearerelated_? _Butyoudontlookstressedsoiguess_ Thorin _saidthiswasokay_.”

“Talk” He gestured to mime the action, She nodded. “We need to know more. You talked about Azog and about Dain.”

“Dain _kingof_ Erebor.”

“Yes. We want to know more about King Dain.”

“‘King’ Dain? King Thorin? King Thror? ‘King’?” She mimed a crown.

“Yes, King. What else? Bolg? Azog? Thorin?” He knew his uncle did not want them to mention the quest before anyone outside the Company or their own kin, but he could only hope that the shapechanger would not make the connection. He also hoped that Kíli would keep his mouth shut.  

Frey must have understood his gesturing.

She vacillated a moment, then grimaced apologetically. She tried to shift forward, hands already starting to move in reenactment of something. Her leg had been forgotten. Eyes shot wide and unseeing, she listed backwards with her teeth grinding together.

“Matdani zud.” Kíli muttered. It was the rare valid point from his brother. If he could have, he would have concurred, and taken their leave until she was improved. Unfortunately, he had to speak to his uncle this evening. For that to be anything other than a disaster, he needed more.

“Lona.”

Patient as Balin had always insisted he would need to be, Fíli sat silently. Beorn glowered over her to the two dwarves. It occurred to him as he waited that if the shapechanger did decide to attack, the only weapons he had were a few small blades and Frey’s hammer. Kíli only had a work knife. Any defense would be his responsibility. She whimpered when she forced herself to sit up, and Beorn only looked angrier at them. As if they had forced her to do so.

Fíli would have preferred to avoid a conflict at all.

“Fíli.” She was apologetic again. “Thror? Girion? Isildur? You adad?” She counted them on one hand, then covered that hand with the other. “ _Ineedthewordfordeadboys_.” Fíli had no idea what she was looking for and shrugged helplessly.

After an exasperated flail that ended with a rude gesture, she walked two fingers along the table, and mimed an exaggerated death. Complete with sound effects. “Thror. Frerin. Girion.”

“Death?” Kíli half shouted. He did a quick enactment, “Death? Thorin and Azog? You were warning us about Thorin’s death?”

Her eyes squinted but she slowly agreed, “ _StillnotsureIvegotthisright_. _Letsseethough_. Thror? Death. Azog? Not death. Thorin, not death. Girion, death. Yes?” This wasn’t the time for grammar, so Fíli nodded. There was that hesitation again, “Fíli? Uh….. Smaug…”

“Not dead is he?”

“Not death.” She shook her head. “ _Waitasecond_. Dead? Not ‘Dead.’” Fíli confirmed that, absolutely _not_ grinning at her, then pushed the plate towards her again. Beorn’s glower had faded into a puzzled frown. “ _Yeahinthatcase_. Smaug not dead. _Supersorrytobethebearerofthatnews_. _Buthopefullly_ Thorin _willthinkofaplanthisway_. _CauseIvegotnothing_.”

“What do you think to learn from her?”

“Whatever we can.” Kíli quipped.

The look they received made it clear that the answer wasn’t good enough. And the tone was unwelcome.

“You’ve never met her before have you?” Fíli interjected, “But she knew your name before meeting you, didn’t she? We didn’t tell it to her.”

“Fíli, _thisismoreimportant_.” She shushed them both and pulled their attention back, “Smaug? Girion _almostkilledhim_. Girion? Bard? Kíli. Elves. Smaug not dead.” She mimed firing a bow. “Smaug dead. Bard _istheheirof_ Girion. _Hehasablackarrowaaaand..... Ihavenofrickingcluehowtomimethat_.”

“We need to kill Smaug with a bow?” Kíli guessed. “That’s been tried. It didn’t go well, Freya. Even with a windlance. We all know the story. A bow won’t kill him.”

“Kí, apparently it will.”

“Come on brother, no, don’t make that be the answer.” he pleaded.

“It is the answer, she just told us.”

“ _Whatareyoutwoonabout_?”

“But,” he scrunched up his face, “Fí, me and uncle are the only archers in the company who are any good. And Thorin only hunts with his. Which makes me the only archer.”

“Yes.”

“Yes!”

“What’s your point?”

Kíli leaned back and his mouth flapped soundlessly for a moment, “You’ve just said I have to do it!” He forgot some times how young he was. How young they both were, really. Seventy-seven years old, sure. Past the age of maturity, yes. But Kíli looked like he was about thirty suddenly, helpless and frantic. It reminded him all too clearly of when they had been in their thirties.

Óin’s return interrupted their rising agitation.

The tea was pressed into Freya’s hand, and the healer waited for her to drink it. Willowbark, by the bitter smell. That was best, she was still trembling.

She took one look and set it down.

“No.”

“What’s that lass? You need to drink it!”

She was fuming beneath the sweating and shaking.

“No.”

Beorn tried to return the cup to her hand.

“No!” She managed to stand, half collapsing when she put weight on her leg, and blanching with a whimper. “ _Imnotdrinkingit_. _Aftertheshit_ Nori _pulledin_ Rivendell? _Imnotdrinkingthetea_. I go dwarves. _Sosorrybutno_. No!”

Neither Óin nor Beorn was pleased about her standing up. They both reached for her, and she hobbled backwards to evade them. Fíli had already put together what was happening. Beorn found it a moment later and asked in a deadly low voice, “Why does she not trust you?”

Kíli glared and signed, “don’t lie.”

Kíli was right.

Unfortunately.

“She was given a sleeping medicine in Rivendell without knowing what it was. That is why she does not want to drink the tea.”

For a moment, Fíli thought there was a thunderstorm approaching, but the rumble was coming from Beorn. Oddly enough, Óin had also rounded to glare.

This whole evening was just getting out of hand. They’d had a plan. They were going to chat with Frey, learn what they could, convince Thorin, and then gorge on bread and honey and cream. Instead….this was happening. He and Kíli had been laughing not half an hour earlier.

Hopefully he would be able to persuade her to drink the tea. Hopefully he would convince her that they trusted her. Hopefully Beorn wasn’t about to lose his temper.

Except that she had no concept of the word, and Fíli hadn’t the first idea of how to convey it to her. His brother had no idea either.

There was too much of a mess between them. Too much endangerment and shunning and disarming.

Oh, that was an idea.

Fíli reached for her hammer from his belt, intending to return it to her.

He made it a step and hadn’t drawn it yet.

She retreated, more obstinate than afraid, heading towards the shapechanger. The moment her intent to take refuge was clear, Beorn lifted her into the air.

“ _Waitnostopthat_ Beorn!”

And they vanished out of the room.

Fíli turned, defeated.

“Well, we have something at least. Let’s go find Thorin.”

 

* * *

 

They had waited too long to speak. That much was obvious.  

Bilbo hadn’t wanted to have this conversation when he was still scribbling arguments on paper. Now the air between them was thick and uncomfortable, and all the spark and fire they had nurtured in Rivendell was gone.

No, not gone. Just, absent during the day.

For all that Bilbo refused to stay in the room if Thorin began a conversation with him, usually pointing to his throat before exiting with a vulgar gesticulation, night was different. They had arrived at Beorn’s home, injured, exhausted, and plagued with Freya’s continued existence, but they had slept under a roof in relative safety and privacy.

Thorin had claimed a place slightly apart from the others. Sleep did not come easily to him that first night. There was his nephews’ faltering confidence that the wrym lived and insistence that fairy stories told truths. There were the implications their words carried. There was Kili’s injury. And there was the lingering foul mood that the madness of their time in in the mountains had forced on him.

His mind was swimming.

Compounding that, despite his best intentions, he had not been able to speak to their burglar. After escaping his nephews, and then Balin, and then Dwalin and then Gandalf, supper was being served. He knew better than to interrupt Bilbo at a meal. Considering that they had barely eaten in days, Thorin knew better than to even attempt a conversation then.

Bilbo vanished to take his rest while Fíli and Kíli tripped over their words and explanations. So he retired that night to his own blanket and corner, far away from the others and opened the note he had been given at last. Bilbo had started and scratched out several sentences that could not be deciphered. A few words were visible. Please and Don’t namely.

Then below the mess was written in a very clear hand, “Don’t you dare let that happen Thorin Oakenshield. I will not allow it.” A worry he had not known he was holding faded slightly. Along with it went a portion of the foul mood that had clung to him since the Goblins. He closed his eyes, clutching the piece of paper and willing his body to surrender to sleep. It did no good, but Thorin was nothing if not resolute.

He would stay immobile and allow his body if not his mind to rest.

Determined as he was to achieve sleep, he did not notice the sound of approaching feet.  In fact, by the time he had heard and looked up, Bilbo was already budging him over.

“Master Bagg--” Thorin cut off at the gesture and waited. Bilbo dropped to the straw and tucked himself against Thorin’s side with his head pressed over his chest. As they hadn’t reconciled, or spoken, or apologized, Thorin was more than a bit shocked. “Would you --”

Bilbo clapped a hand over Thorin’s mouth, returning it there every time Thorin tried to speak. Eventually the battle was lost and they lay in silence except for the murmurs of the Company in the next room. It was comfortable. After the week they had just survived, it was needed. Bilbo fell asleep first, half wrapped around him as if ensuring that Thorin would not vanish in the night.

Despite their various and extensive explorations of each other while pressed into closets and against trees, they had never done this. They had never fallen asleep together.

Thorin regretted the oversight.

It was more pleasant than he had dreamt.

He ran his fingers through soft curls until peaceful sleep claimed him.

When he woke in the morning, his -- the hobbit was gone, already wolfing through breakfast like he had never seen food before even though he had eaten as much as any two of them yesterday. They spent most of the day awkwardly catching the other looking, but Thorin did not try to speak. The second evening went as the first had.

Wordless solace.

Though, that night Bilbo slipped his fingers between Thorin’s and held tight.

It was… frustrating for Thorin. He would have preferred to have explained and offered apology for his behavior, and hopefully received one in kind, the moment they had landed on the Carrock. Or as they trekked towards this waypoint. Or that first night. He was not accustomed to being forced to inaction. It was driving him slightly mad. His temper kept the Company at a distance.

While he knew that his temper was unpleasant to the others, he felt it justified.

He had thought Bilbo safely on the road back to Rivendell. Then thought him taken by goblins. Then thought him dead. Then he had appeared as if sent by the Valar in time to save his nephew from execution. Thorin had fairly hummed with the need to bury his face in the hobbit’s curls atop that jut of rock and hold him until the fear had subsided.

Instead Bilbo had backed away from him. Which had then left Thorin more confused than ever as they travelled away from the Carrock with a heavy pit in his gut and a tension in his chest. Bilbo would not so much as meet his eye. Yet, when Thorin’s arm, strained in fighting free from an entire mountain’s worth of goblins, had pained him, the hobbit had been angrily fussing at him to shift his weapons and surviving pack to the other shoulder.

Given his preference they would have travelled on already.

This rest was necessary for the Company. Thorin knew that. He would just have to overlook the looming deadline in the fall. They were past the point of exhaustion, limping on wounds and trying to regain their bearings.

Beorn was a generous host after the initial rough start. On the second day began preparing packs and supplies to outfit them to survive the forest. The bear had even sequestered their follower away from them except for Óin’s services as a healer. It was an unexpected and blissful benefit of their stay. But this was the third afternoon they had spent, and he still had not been able to speak to Bilbo.

It would not stand.

Balin had given him an indirect lecture and reprimand on the subject after breakfast. Thorin did not know how Balin knew of the words the pair had spoken after the stone giants, but hearing his callous words referenced was enough to goad him into action he should never have delayed.  

The silence would not permitted to stretch further.

Bilbo would not be pleased over having to write his part of the conversation, but it would have to serve. Thorin was not going to wait another Mahal knew how many days before he could hammer out this problem.

For what felt like the thousandth time in the last month, Bilbo surprised him.

“Yes. Hello. Follow.” The hobbit declared the moment he was located.

That was how they found themselves hidden behind the enormous flowers of Beorn’s fields.

“Your voice has returned.”

“Mostly.” His voice cracked a fragment in that word, eliciting a grumpy tweak of his nose that Thorin badly wanted to kiss. He restrained himself.

“And you are willing to speak to me now? Or will I be shushed like a disobedient child again?”

“Are you going to act like a child, Thorin?”

“I have not so far.”

Bilbo cleared his throat after a long moment of accusation. The unmitigated cheek of the hobbit was almost a relief. Days of indifferent silence were miserable. And, while he did not want to admit to enjoying it, Bilbo’s barbs and quips caused him to chuckle more than scowl.

The blissful days in Rivendell had blinded Thorin to the dangers of the road, and it was unsurprising, now that he looked on it from a place of safety and mental calm, that he had overreacted to Bilbo’s life being in danger. He had most certainly overreacted. He hoped to pass it off as only such, and not be forced to explain why his reaction had been so strong.

With luck Bilbo would believe that he had been spurred by stress, exhaustion, and the intensity of the thunder battle. The other option, the truth, was best left unknown.

Bilbo had never given any indication of welcome to such a thing.

Thorin wrenched himself out of his rumination and jumped to talk before Bilbo’s opening mouth could begin speaking.

“I apologize for my words in the high pass. And my behavior towards you in the days prior to it.” He rushed out in tone that sounded vaguely sincere. After a long exhale, and in control of the moment for a little while longer, he continued, “I apologize Bi -- Master Baggins. I have seen too many fall before their time. Seeing your life endangered so many times in so short an order caused me to see more possibilities of such, and I responded as if you could not withstand them. You certainly have proven your capacity on our quest and I hope that in my offering you this--”

“Bilbo.”

“Excuse me?”

“You can still call me Bilbo, Thorin.”

Getting hit by a landslide couldn’t have more quickly eradicated his capacity for rational thought. Bilbo had spoken with a softness that wriggled its way into Thorin’s mind and upset all the order there. It was a tone that had been absent since Rivendell.

“No, don’t get that face yet. You were awful.” Thorin’s exuberant joy faltered at that, “Those weeks travelling to the mountains -- you were horrid. Then, in the pass -- Thorin, you called me little better than -- well, nothing you said to me should be repeated.”

“Neither of us spoke with any consideration, I believe.”

“Neither?” His voice squeaked up and broke. He coughed and ploughed onward, “Neither? Yes, I may have lost my temper with your insults, but it was entirely at your prompting! I had nearly fallen to my death, you could have died in that bloody storm and Giant fight, and you -- Did you know I followed you out of that cave thinking you were concerned for me? And instead you started to -- the nerve of you Thorin Oakenshield! I’ll have you know that if I didn’t --” His voice broke once more, vanishing almost entirely.

The loss of it again set Bilbo fuming, and Thorin hid his mirth behind a century of practice maintaining a calm mien. He stomped his foot and twitched his nose with closed eyes. While he wasn’t looking, Thorin allowed himself to briefly grin, hiding it before Bilbo’s eyes reopened and he was pinned still by hobbity ire.

We had,” more throat clearing, “In Rivendell we attempted to discuss… this.” he finished ineffectually.

“Yes, so we did.” Doubt crept in around the edges of his mind. “Do you feel that such a discussion is now prudent? I can tell you that my sentiments have not changed.” Nor were they likely too, but he was quite sure that elucidating precisely how he would want to alter their interactions at the present time would be ill advised. It was an overwhelming request for any dwarf, and for a hobbit, it would require a great deal a tact. A commodity which, after two centuries, Thorin admitted, to himself at least, he was not predisposed to using well.

Bilbo was nodding repeatedly.

“You would like us to behave appropriately and professionally, and I think that after -- after the pass, I think you may be right. That this must… end. I would prefer to end on more friendly terms, but there it is. An easy opportunity to conclude this has arisen and I think we would be quite foolish not to take it, Thorin….uhm…. Regarding my intruding on your evenings these last two days, I, uhm, I wanted to be sure of your safety, and that’s all there is to that. I’m sorry.” He barely made it through without his voice vanishing into squeaks and hoarse croaks.

Bewildered and almost reeling, Thorin interrupted, “You apologize for taking comfort in my presence but not for what you said to me on the pass?”

“You were the one to start that.”

“You escalated it.”

“You told me I had no place in the company.”

“You left us.”

“You told me to! You--” Whatever else Bilbo meant to say was lost as his voice absconded with his fragile temper.

Amidst faint squeaks and hoarse croaks, Bilbo gestured and mouthed a litany of insults at him. Several of which were in khuzdul. None of which were things Thorin would have guessed Bilbo to know. As it ran on, Thorin recalled what had just been saying about their conversations in Rivendell.

Apparently he had not understood Thorin’s intention about proper behavior. Bilbo intended to cut off the burgeoning relationship entirely.

Which was unacceptable.

His mute tirade faltered and faded and Thorin gently reached towards him, attempting to look less severe than he usually did. He stopped, not yet touching, waiting for permission, perfectly willing to forget the harsh words they had traded if Bilbo allowed it.

Bilbo’s eyes snapped up, still fiery, met his and, as Thorin watched, melted.

Anger gave way to a glow of affection that transcended the beauty of any craft Thorin had seen in his life. Gingerly, he let his hand brush against the hobbit’s smooth cheek, and did not try to restrain his smile when Bilbo leaned into it.

It was not forgiveness, but he was not watching him walk away, and Thorin was willing to take what luck he could for now. Hidden behind enormous flowers, surrounded by nothing more dangerous than the buzz of bees, he traced Bilbo’s jaw and lightly glanced a touch over the vicious bruising that circled his neck. Half-healed, it was a riotous mash of colors. He still did not know how he had gained them, and Thorin’s mind was happy to supply several dozen horrifying possibilities.

He pushed the images aside.

Whatever the cause, he had prevailed.

“One day, I would like to know this story.” Reproachful and abashed, Bilbo shook his head uncomfortably. “Not today, Bilbo, but one day.”

Thorin startled when he felt a hand slide along the edge of his tunic, pausing over a new slash in the leather.  An inquisitive eyebrow made him snort. “I must assume you’d like to hear that story as well?” The first reaction was feigned disinterest, but the hand tightened, pulling him ever so slightly closer, and eventually a smirk played at the edges of his lips.

“Bilbo, I told you that you were unfit to join our quest. I called you a grocer and -- and worse. I have doubted your suitability, your skill, your strength and your wisdom. I thought you too soft. I thought you too kind to survive in the wild. For many weeks, I thought you had no place amongst us.”

Thorin pressed his thumb over Bilbo’s parted mouth to prevent him attempting to speak, “You saved my nephew’s life. You somehow survived and escaped a goblin cave where we required the assistance of a _wizard_ to do the same. You evaded capture. You brought down orcs and wargs, and I am only too aware that you were unarmed until you retrieved Kíli’s sword. I should never have doubted you. I can think of no one I trust or value more.”

He wanted to crush Bilbo into an embrace. Badly. With effort he kept himself to a slow caress over his cheek, allowing his fingers to brush through curls.

The outrage brought on by Thorin’s initial honesty had dissipated. His mouth opened, and all that came out was a croak. Frustration overtook the hobbit’s features as he tried and failed to speak. And Thorin was not going to comment on how charming it was.  He could see the aggravation peaking, and expected to be shoved away so Bilbo could resort to whatever it was hobbits did when past their patience.

He expected it would be somewhat less than intimidating, but likely quite amusing to watch.

So it was an extremely pleasant surprise when the hand on his coat tightened and he was hauled into a tender kiss.

He had thought a hug to be too high a hope.

Instead there was the press of lips against his own seemingly attempting to say what Bilbo’s throat disallowed.

They broke apart slowly. Thorin too overcome with relief to consider speech. Bilbo’s resurrected mutism silencing him just as surely. Then Bilbo very carefully mouthed another word in khuzdul.

Thorin needed to learn who was teaching him. And hit them.

But Bilbo was smirking again, well aware of how insulting that word was. Not to mention the glee at Thorin’s constant irritation that he could not explain _how_  he learned it. Bilbo brought their foreheads together and they both stood and breathed for long minutes, warmed by the sun and content in the safety of Beorn’s garden.

So close, he felt as much as he saw the questioning look, and gesture between the two of them.

“Bilbo,” he finally managed refusing to move away, “a moment ago, you suggested that we end… this…” He danced his fingers over Bilbo’s chest in definition, “in light of our…recent discord.”

It felt like every muscle in the hobbit tensed.

“I must confess that, unless you insist, I have no intention of being parted from you. Even though you will continue to voice insubordination and sow chaos in battles. No. You will, there’s no reason to deny it, Bilbo. You are incapable of doing otherwise. But, I would rather you be by my side.”

There. That was a decent balance between a proper reply to his question, and what he wanted to say. Enough to be clear, not enough to scare him away just as he had him back in his arms.

The beaming smile he received was answer enough.

 

* * *

 

 

The fields of Pellenor were burning in front of her eyes, and there was screaming in the air. Smaug swept down again, casting more flames upon men and orcs alike. She nodded and pointed, and a swarm of undead, on their side this time, swept over it, destroying the army of the enemy.

Cheering behind her made her turn to see the four hobbits. Bilbo, Rosie, Pippin and Lobelia. Yes. Wait. No. That wasn’t right. Where was Frodo? Why were they in Osgilliath?

Lobelia screamed, pointed, and they all turned around again.

Dol Guldur loomed above them and the trees around them were reaching out to grab them with long twisted branches. The dirt beneath her feet was quavering, shifting, like it might swallow them up at any point. A massive battle was sending sparks and gluts of fire raining down on them. Gandalf was battling the Balrog.

Wait. That wasn’t right either.

Snow fell on them on a mountain and the Balrog plummeted down in smoke.

Orcs screamed and Gandalf was captured by the enemy. Hmm. Well. That happened when someone wandered off to scout a stronghold of the enemy alone.

The dwarves concurred.

She sat down with a sippy cup of whiskey and turned off the tv. That way she could hear the conversation in the kitchen easier.

“Just do it now and be done with it.”

“Do we have to?”

“She’ll keep following and we can’t trust her.”

“You’ll do it Fíli. She trusts you.”

“Do you want to use Sting?”

“Might be best, we need to leave at first light, and she can’t follow again.”

“And we can’t just tie her up?”

“Might not work.”

“Might be necessary to finish it at all.”

“Can’t the wizard help?”

“Yeah Mithrandir?”

“I think rope.”

She was sitting on her sofa. Stupid cheap pink velour piece of crap sofa. She was just sitting there, frozen, listening to the dwarves talk about knives and swords and rope and her.

Stupid fucking traitorous dwarves.

“Got a point. Easy to take her.”

“So, do you want Sting, Fíli?”

“I’ve got plenty of knives, thanks.”

A hand touched her wrist. She wrenched sideways, too slow to escape it, but fast enough to distance herself. Her eyes snapped open and she saw Fíli standing next to her. The crabwalk-esque scrabbling retreat she pulled had her out of his grip and on the other end of the bench before her mind had fully awoken. It also left her leg throbbing.

However, the pain in her leg had her confident that she had actually woken up and Fíli wasn’t about to murder her.

“ _Didsomethinghappen_ Frey?”

It was strange that not understanding the dwarves had become a comfort. When they talked in her dreams, she understood them. Her brain’s insistence that they were trying to kill her was getting tiresome.

“Shit these dreams are getting out of hand.” She muttered into her hands as she scrubbed at her face.

It was the third afternoon there, and she had apparently fallen asleep by the kitchen. Not that she could explain why she’d fallen asleep. It hadn’t been planned. But ever since that medieval farce of a medical procedure she had been exhausted and shaky.

Beorn apparently took this to mean she was fragile.

After refusing to drink the tea Óin had brought that night -- and she had no intention of drinking anything from the dwarves again after Rivendell -- she had retreated to hide behind the shapechanger so they couldn’t try to force her. Frey had intended to explain a bit more, mixed with every insult she could think of, but Beorn had scooped her into his arms before she could start. He had put her in what could only be his bed, and his various dogs had all piled in to surround her. She had fallen asleep not long after, annoyed with the dwarves, annoyed with Beorn, slightly drunk off the sweet, potent booze they had poured into her in place of opiates, and very cozy in a pile of puppies.

Could have been much worse.

Beorn had stuck around with her through the night. Or, she thought he did. It was fuzzy. She woke up shaky and lost from nightmares over and over again, and was fairly sure someone had helped her drink some water at some point in the night. He was definitely there early in the morning with a platter of bread and more of the best butter she’d ever tasted. Which she devoured. So much better than lembas.

All was well. Beorn had her back, the army of oddly sentient dogs was on her side, and the dwarves were less antagonistic than they had been. Her brain was having too much fun with dreams, but she could handle that. It was just dreams.

Then she tried to leave the room.

That wasn’t allowed.

If it had been one of the dwarves trying to keep her there she would have hit them until they let her out, but she couldn’t bring herself to smack the entirely earnest and and way too cuddly dogs. Hitting Beorn had about as much impact as slapping the wall.

So there she had sat for a day and a half, trying to find an escape plan, and hoping that the dwarves didn’t scamper off without her. Again. They were loud enough while conscious that she knew they were still about. At night at least one of them snored like an approaching train.

She didn’t see much of Beorn on the second morning, though she could hear his rumbling conversation somewhere nearby.

One of the dogs had come over mid morning, sniffed her bandages and barked.

Just like that she was allowed out of the room.

She climbed into her still filthy, half torn apart jeans before venturing out to the rest of the house. They needed to be sewn back together, but for now at least the important bits would be covered.

Not that she’d made it far, since she had fallen asleep ten steps away at the empty table.

And woken up at the no longer empty table. She blinked away the dream and the remnants of sleep to look around. There were dwarves. Most of them. Including Bofur right behind her on the bench. That realization was enough to fling her to her feet.

“ _Are_ you _suretheresnothingwrong_? You _dontlookwell_.” Fili tried again.

“Sasakhabiya gurud.” Bifur added from her other side.

Frey jumped about two feet.

She wasn’t normally this skittish. She didn’t like it. Side effect of being feverish and unmedicated. She really didn’t like that it made them all look at her like she was delicate. That perception wasn’t going to help convince them that she’d be coming along.  Lacking a solution, she grunted inarticulately waved a hand dismissively, spun to leave, and crashed into Gandalf’s stomach.

The world careened sideways, and a few dozen images, flashes from the movies and excerpts of stories played in her eyes. All of them included Gandalf. They had been blendered into a smorgasbord of clips, but they were all there.

The new chaos in her skull was enough to keep her from noticing that the world really had careened sideways, and she had tipped backward halfway into a faint. Helpful as ever, the dwarves shouted a warning right before she hit the ground and cracked her skull. Frey managed to avoid blacking out, and quick check assured her it only felt like she was bleeding. The result of which being that there was no reason not to push away from Óin, Dwalin, and Kíli and attempt to murder Gandalf.

She finally had an explanation for the dreams.

He deserved this.

The porn had been aggravating. No denying that. It had been aggravating and six kinds of not ok, and led to uncomfortable thoughts and a lot of blushing.

But dreaming about death and murder and mayhem over and over? Waking up from nightmares all sweaty and confused every damn time she fell asleep? Ever since the bloody Carrock?

That was just cruel.

Plus, the wizard was probably bloody confused by the dreams where she was playing on her computer. Or driving.

There it was though, the answer on why her brain had been so traitorous. Once again, the powers-that-be in Middle Earth had decided that rooting around her skull sounded just dandy.

Fucking White Council.

“You!?” She shouted, incredulous, and repeated it in Westron once she remembered. “First of all old man, learn some damn manners. Second stop making me think about various horrible deaths. Third, I hope you were confused as fuck by the time I dreamt about Magneto! Fourth, just… just stop doing that shit!” She flapped her hands at him.

One of the dwarves cautiously started to grab her arm. She smacked whoever’s hand without turning.

If she had thought about the audience behind her, she would have censored herself, or excused the pair of them to another location to shout at him. She also would have tried to speak coherently and patiently. She wasn’t thinking things through.

Frey rarely thought things through.

“Just. Fuck. Gandalf, you cannot just dig through a person’s brain! Also. Wait. If you watched all that along with me, why the shit are you still here? Why am I? I murdered Bilbo in at least three of them. You saw Minas Tirith fall. You saw me sneaking around watching people smut it up while wearing the ring. You saw Smaug. You saw the fucking nazgul. The Witch King of Angmar was hunting Bilbo and your ass is still hanging out here blowing damn smoke rings around the room?

“How has the world not come apart? Aren’t you supposed to be in charge of it? Protecting it? Aren’t you supposed to help you crappy excuse for a Wizard? I know you’re going to wander off right when the Dwarves need you, you pot head hippie burnout son of a whore. But I was sort of hoping you’d be smarter than this!

“No, no, no,” she muttered, “I shouldn’t be surprised. I mean, it took you how many millennia to do your homework about Sauron’s favorite piece of jewelry? If I didn’t need you to kill that Balrog later I swear I’d steal back my hammer and break your foot. And your pipe! And I honestly dont know which one would piss you off more, you ass!”

Gandalf was watching her with the insufferably placid expression that Elrond had used on her when she yelled at him about Galadriel. Apparently the White Council taught people how to be unflappable.

Unlike the Lord of Rivendell, Gandlaf hummed, and looked ready to reply.

“No,” she cut him off in Westron, regretting how close she had gotten as a crick formed in her neck, “No. You. You talk Galadriel? Rivendell? Did you talk to her about Dol Guldur? Please say you did. Please? It took me like six damn hours to get it all told to her, and that was with her digging around in my head. And I think she only really understood half of it. Please say you had a chat with Galadriel?”

“Dol Guldur?”

“Yes, Dol Guldur. Where the necromancer is. Where Radagast told you to go. You talk Galadriel Dol Guldur?”

That constipated frown could only mean he had not.

“Stupid hippie.”

The hand tried to grab her arm again. She smacked it again.

“Listen to me Gandalf. You. Radagast. Fuck I don’t know what that place is called. Nazgul tombs? Fuck it. You and Radagast go nazgul. Or, just listen to me, and go straight to Dol Guldur and bitch slap the necromancer around a bit. Quick advice. Bring hands with you this time. Cause it’s totally a trap. Talk Galadriel. Galadriel Gandalf words.”

“ _Howdo_ you _knowofthesethings_? _Have_ you _seenit_?” Gandalf asked her in that slow patient tone that had seemed grandfatherly and kind until she heard it in person.

It was irritating.

“ _Shesnotgoingtounderstandya_.”  Dwalin interrupted before she could speak.

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“ _Butitshouldbeattempted_. _If_ Fíli _and_ Nori _arecorrectitmayproveofuse_.”

“Ya _thinktheladsareright_?” Nori said from somewhere behind her.

“ _Sowhydidntyasaysobefore_?”

Gandalf hummed a not-answer to Dwalin’s question.

“Look, Gandalf. I don’t give a shit what they’re talking to you about.” She took a step back from the wizard and began speaking as much Westron as she could, very slowly as she mimed. “I have seen,” she really hoped the fragments of baby sign language would help, “Seen. Dol Guldur. You. The bloody white council. Saruman, Galadriel, Elrond. You go Dol Guldur. Fight. Or death is going to have a field day.”

The wizard reached towards her. She took another step away. Bumped into Dwalin. It startled her long enough that Gandalf was able to press fingers to her forehead. Everything went blurry.

First it seemed she was just dizzy, then she realized it was dozens of images playing in her eyes at once. He did not have the control that the Lady of Lorien did. It spared her learning about his kink of choice, which was a relief, but left her reeling and nauseated.

It was chaos.

There was no way he was catching any of it. She knew what she was looking for, and still couldn’t do more than identify brief glimpses. Aragorn charging the Black Gates. Thorin dead. Fireworks. Dale bright and alive. Bilbo wearing a crown. The Shire burning. Tom Bombadil.

Gandalf was muttering, much like he had while healing Kíli.

It wasn’t working.

So she tried to drag him to an image or a scene that would actually help. He resisted her control enough that she missed, and for a moment they were both flooded with something utterly unhelpful.

_\----dressed in red silk and pearls, Ian’s hair was coiffed magnificently like the Dame’s, as predictions of the year’s oscar winners tripped out sweetly. Chucking Jimmy under the chin and flirting charmingly----_

Frey smacked Gandalf’s hand away from her face to stop it.

“Sorry. Sorry. Uhmm… You weren’t supposed to see that. I’m hoping that without the beard… and not in this outfit... I mean. That was….” She shook her head and gestured for Gandalf to try again.

The wizard took the vision of, essentially himself dressed as a woman, in stride faster than she would have hoped, only gaping for a moment before setting fingers against her brow.

This time he didn’t fight her.

For a moment, not much, but hopefully enough, she focused on what she wanted him to see. Luckily Gandalf’s story had rarely been a focus in the fics she had read, so there were only a dozen or so ideas in the mess, and in all of them, the bastard went to Dol Guldur to investigate. What happened after that was a wreck, but that one damn thing was clear.

Really, it was only a few seconds before she lost track of what was happening and it descended back into total madness. Gandalf, still curious, proceeded to root around long after she’d lost her sense of which way was up. Eyes locked on his face without knowing it, when he stopped, and her vision cleared, he was squinting and muttering.

“ _Verywellthen_. _Ifthatishowitmustbe_.”

He pulled his hand away and Frey blinked at a glacial pace.

Galadriel’s porn capades had left her flustered and aroused. That had been like an egg beater to the grey matter.

“I _believe_ I _havesomepressingbusinessawaytothesouth_. _Whereis_ Thorin?”

Frey watched him duck out of the door with all the faculty of a drug addled puppy. Nodded. Something large and beardy was in front of her. Didn’t exactly narrow the field. Whoever it was was talking.

Her head didn’t feel right.

Another slow blink.

Oh.

That’s what was happening.

“Nope.”

She had time to be proud of remembering the word in Westron.

Then she fainted on Dwalin.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's hoping that they'll keep playing along with me and I'll have a new chapter for you soon, though this thing was a monstrous 9300 words, so.... oh who knows anymore.  
> I love all of you for every single comment, and I absolutely read through the comments when I need motivation to write. But now I'm going to post this very late at night (here at least) exactly a month after my last update *judges self* so if you see glaring errors, let me know, and I'll check it again in the morning.  
> <3
> 
>  **KHUZDUL  
> **  
>  Nadadith : Little Brother  
> Nadad'ugmal : Big brother  
> Itrik hu : Shove It  
> Matdani zud : We should wait  
> Lona : Not yet  
> Sasakhabiya gurud : You look terrible


	14. Kinda Inappropriate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dwarves mosly abandon maturity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Liiiiiiiivvvvvvvveeeeeeee.  
> Ok, in all seriousness, these last two months have been some of the worst in my life, and writing just wasn't an option. I tried, I failed, and now that I finally am able to write again, I seem to have gotten even wordier. dammit.  
> Or maybe not dammit. Maybe you're glad this chapter that was meant to be short and sweet became just under 10k. It certainly took me long enough to write the thing. I think the total of all the times I wrote and rewrote sections of this is more like 20k, and I wish that was an exaggeration.  
> Khuzdul on hover, if its doubled, the first one has the translation. And there's a word bank at the end.  
> However, you have it now. :D Enjoy.

 

 

“I didn’t say you were right.”

“Aye, you said you were wrong.”

“Didn’t say that either.”

“Wellllll…..Ya did, but I can be the better dwarf today and let ya pretend, Dwalin.”

Dwalin humphed. Then he pointed to the darkening bruise on Nori’s cheek and waited for an explanation.

“Bofur and I had a wee disagreement.” Nori divulged, “I won.”  

Dwalin doubted that. Neither of them won. Bofur had limped into breakfast like someone had caught him in the stones with his own hammer. Nori’s face was all colorful. Nori wasn’t going to admit it though, so all Dwalin could do was grunt, and wait.

“Yeah, alright fine. Might’ve been a draw.” Nori shrugged, “But you didn’t come find me so we could chat about Bofur did ya? Pretty sure ya came to find me to talk about the lass, and how ya changed yer mind about her.”

“Haven’t changed my mind.”

“That so? It wasn’t you that scooped her up and kept her from walking on that leg? Wasn’t you that I saw remindin’ Óin he needed to check in on her? Wasn’t you that got all flustered and worried after the Wizard did, well, whatever that was to her an’ she collapsed right in front of ya?”

“Haven’t changed my mind.” Dwalin repeated, shifting against the wall and regretting coming to talk to the thief at all.

“Don’t gimme that!” Nori snapped, “Ya told off Thorin! Ya stood there and ya told him he had to start listening because even the bloody wizard was listening to her! And ya caught her when she went all sideways on us! Ya don’t trust her, anyone can see that. I don’t hardly trust her. But ya changed yer mind, ya want her coming with us. I won’t bother ya too much if ya tell me why. If ya don’t --” He smirked, “-- I’ll just go have a chat with me little brother.”

Dwalin growled at that and rolled his knuckles.

“Seems like she might know things.”

“Seems?” Nori grinned, victorious, “Aye, does seem that way, since she’s gone and proved it a couple of times over now.”

“She hasn’t proved--”

“Don’t make me do the list again.”

Dwalin gnawed on his cheek before spitting out, “Fine.”

“So why’d ya come over to have this lovely little chat?” Nori smiled wide, tilting his head to watch, “Just lettin me know that you were —“

“She’s gonna travel with us.” Dwalin interrupted, more than done with Nori’s endless needling. “The lad’s are set on it, an’ Thorin’ll cave to em. Even if he don’t listen to the lads, I’ll lay out my last coin that Bilbo’s decided on it, and we both know he’ll get what he wants. Óin’s got that look of his. You’ve got that look like you’ll knife anyone as what disagrees with ya. Ori and Bifur’ve teamed up and been snapping at Dori, not that it’s going oh so well. Balin’s doing that silent lecturing thing he does.”

“And you want her to come along.”

Punching Nori when he was already three shades of bruised wouldn’t be quite right. So instead he answered with a frown, “If she is out to kill us all, I’d rather have her in reach of my axes, aye.”

Nori made a sound of pitying agreement.

“So when we’re done supping on bread and drinking _cream_ ,” and Dwalin may have said that word with a tone reserved for torture and violence, “she’ll come along. And she ain’t gonna travel with us like she has been. We’ve got enough fun coming up for us with that iklifumuni khuthâzu forest and the mibilkhagas in it. Don’t want to complicate matters more. She pulls too much attention to herself. She doesn’t know what she’s doin’. She doesn’t really know how to fight. She can’t be along making it harder for us.”

“What’s your point?”

Dwalin sighed and gestured vaguely at Nori’s chest. “Have ya got a spare? That lass’s gonna have to travel like a dwarf if she’s gonna come along.”

Nori made a showy, considering face before tucking a hand in his pocket and pulling out a roll of cloth and lacing.

Of course he had a spare.

*****

Dwalin hadn’t really parsed out the process on this.

After as much time as she’d spent chasing after them, trying to get them to talk to her, he hadn’t figured on her vanishing whenever he went to talk to her. Besides, it wasn’t that long ago that Oin had been cutting bits off her leg to get her healing, the lass shouldn’t have been so damn spry.

Chewing on the side of his mouth and growling, Dwalin didn’t notice when Ori stepped next to him.

It was just nice that none of the others were around to hear that particular little squeak. They’d have given him shit for it for a decade. Ori just grinned sweetly.

“Something wrong Mister Dwalin?”

“Just trying to chase down that” he stumbled for words and resorted to a list of khuzdul insults that Ori seemed a bit shocked by. He never knew how to talk to the scribe, even once he had started to want to talk to him. He wasn’t bookish, he didn’t know the histories, he couldn’t talk about the ancient poets, or compare the politics of the other kingdoms. It wasn’t his suit. So he did this instead: floundering about and making an ass of himself.

“Why?”

“Yer brother’s loaning her this, and thought it’d be fun to make me deal with her.”

Ori kinda nodded at that, sympathetic to Nori’s difficult nature, then he chuckled, and then laughed aloud, “Oh, I’m not gonna let him forget this, he kept his spare binder but not his favorite knife.” He abruptly stopped, and looked a bit awkward, “Oh, I’m uh, I’m sorry. It’s just, he’s always going on about that knife of his, well, all of his knives actually, and how I ought to carry more. And how I ought to keep better track of my own weapons and —“

“Not like we didn’t all lose a few things to the Goblins. Haven’t seen your slingshot since we got through.” Yes, good. Weaponry. This was a conversation he knew how to have.

“Oh, I’ve still got it, Kíli tucked it into a pocket while we ran.”

“Ya didn’t have a weapon during all that?”

Ori’s expression pinched. Dwalin’s tone had been a bit more patronizing than he’d meant it to be. But then brown eyes looked back up, bewildered.

“You didn’t— that is, I thought that you had noticed before — I had your hammer. Still have it actually.”

“You’ve been using my hammer?” Dwalin hadn’t meant to sound incredulous, but his hammer was about the size of Ori, and he’d had it made specially.

For a minute there, it looked like Ori was going to wilt, but he settled himself a bit sturdier on his feet, and straightened his spine.

“Yes. And I’m not planning to give it back Mister Dwalin. I found it. I’m keeping it. Now then, you said you were looking for Freya. I’ll help.” He nodded and turned away. If he hadn’t, he would have seen Dwalin’s happy grin at the nerve of that taunt. As it was, Dwalin was only too content to tag along, and if he did so from a pace or two behind, he could hardly be blamed.

 

* * *

 

The day was balmy and bright, breakfast was delicious and filling, and her leg no longer throbbed with every single movement, just most of them. It was a good day to be Frey even if Dwalin had been chasing her back and forth across the garden this morning flapping fabric in her face. Why the warrior was so intent on her wearing a bra, she wasn’t quite sure, especially since she had one on that actually fit her. However, it wasn’t really the time to antagonize any of them more than she already had. So she took the thing and nodded like she understood when Dwalin talked for a few minutes. Ori had helpfully mimed a few things, but since she knew what a bra was, it seemed a bit unnecessary.

No matter, they let let her alone after she’d said yes enough times.

She’d been able to find Beorn, and begged him to give them more supplies. Many more. So the ponies were doubly laden, and she’d promised to send them back once they reached Mirkwood. Then she’d found her own packs, and added to the remaining lembas as much food as she could.

Then she retreated to this lovely little bit of water and started scrubbing; herself, her clothes, anything and everything. Didn’t even bother to strip, and let the clothes dry on her back.  

Her toes twiddled in the river while her boots baked in the sun a few rocks over. If there was any mercy in Middle Earth it would help kill the smell. Wearing them for two weeks straight as she slogged up the mountains, and then through all that fun with the goblins, had made them ripe enough to knock her on her ass when she removed them.

She was considering going full on hobbit if the smell didn’t fade. Yes, her feet weren’t quite as hardy, but they could probably catch up pretty quickly.

Well, nothing for it but to wait since it wasn’t like she had a bottle of bleach hidden in her bag. Nice as that would have been.

“Oh no, come on, _owwwwwww_.” She groaned as her body cramped again. Apparently the backache that morning hadn’t been from sleeping curled up with a puppy. She nearly bent in half before it loosened enough she could breathe normally, “Fine. Better now than in the forest I guess. Rather have neither, but don’t think anyone can hysterectomy me right quick. Not without killing me horrifically.”

She dug in her pocket for the cup, knowing she’d need to boil it without the others noticing. That’d be a hell of thing to try to explain. Silicone would never pass as natural. And there was no way in hell she would use it without disinfecting it. And the idea of explaining exactly how and Where it was used was just a step too far. Several steps actually.

Her fingers searched for the modern relic; instead they found a circle of gold.

Right. She still had that.

Since the Company was opposed to her being anywhere near Bilbo alone it wasn’t as if handing it back had been simple. Yes, she could have passed it on via one of the dwarves who didn’t hate her, or via Beorn, but that would have required her to go through a whole song and dance to explain what was happening. And would have risked someone falling to ringlust, and that wouldn’t have been a good thing. Of that she was sure.

Holding onto it had simply been pragmatic. That was all.

With the way a lot of the dwarves still tensed and all of them stared every time she walked into a room she could hardly have stealthily returned the thing. Yelling at Gandalf until he fled had impacted their opinions a bit. Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d worn it. She wasn’t that stupid. She knew better than to allow it a foothold like that.

Provoking Thorin would seem like a rational plan in comparison.

And Frey wasn’t that dumb. It was obvious that the dwarves didn’t trust her, which meant she would have to work twice as hard as she thought to pull this off. Not that it had been a walk in the park thus far. Middle Earth was just a big barrel of things that wanted to kill her. And eat her. The fact that she was alive, that she had managed to track them, that she hadn’t just keeled over of middle earth’s equivalent of dysentery was kind of remarkable.

She was desperate for a bit of divine inspiration. Some clue on how to make them listen. Or to let her talk. Really, the latter would make everything so much easier.

Pictionary and charades would help, but illustrating broad concepts wasn’t going to happen. Smaug was easy to draw. Geopolitical conflict between the ruling kingdoms of the east? Not so much.

She needed a trump card, or a cheat code. Something.

Fuck it, maybe she should just keep it. Bilbo could get on without it. And if she had it, she could sneak down past Smaug, who had certainly never smelled anything like her, and nick the arkenstone. She could maybe learn archery from Kíli and kill him. Being a Dragonslayer would be nice. There might be a parade. Ticker tape. Giant inflatable versions of herself.

Never mind. Those would be terrifying.

The ring in her palm caught the light beautifully.

The sun was warm, the stream was lovely, and everything just felt right.

Bilbo really didn’t know what he was doing with it anyway. He’d just use it to escape annoying relatives, maybe to surprise Thorin in the bath if that mess ended with a second crown.

It could be so much more.

It could be useful.

She could fix the whole mess.

She could make sure that everything worked out properly. All she would need to do is keep the ring.

Even her cramps were gone, or faded, or something. She didn’t hurt. And wasn’t that just a blessing? To actually be comfortable and happy for five damn minutes on her vacation in hell? It was bliss.

She could do with more of that.

Keep it safe.

That made sense.

She could have what she wanted if she just kept it like the precious thing it was.

She whispered the word as her fingers reached to touch it.

The world torqued sideways and she jolted at a sudden headache.

Frey’s hand spasmed as it tried to fist around the ring and fling it away at the same time. She scrambled backwards over the rock she was sitting on, eyes never leaving the circle of gold on the dirt where it had fallen.

This was very very bad.

Catastrophically bad.

Utterly, impossibly, disastrously bad.

“Ohhhhhhhh. Son of a ball sucking -- oh shit, Shit, balls, fuck, hell, damn, ass -- Nope. Nope. Okay, what the fuck do I do? Bastardy awful stupid Sauron and his stupid jackass horcrux bullshit ruining my vacation here in hell."

Well, obviously, she needed to pick it up and take it to Bilbo. That wasn’t the same as wearing it, so it wouldn’t be a big deal. Just grab the damned thing and --

“Nooooo. Oh baaalllllss."

It was just a ring. A pretty band of gold. The trees reflected on its curves, distorting them and containing them. It was the single bright point amid the dull mire of the dirt beneath it. Of the world around it. It was a gift, and she could not tear her eyes away from it. Why would she want to?

Why would she need to look away from something so perfect? So important?

She was cold.

She was wet.

She finally realized that her fall had dumped her neatly into the stream. Cold mountain water was soaking her again, and she had only just noticed. Her rock, formerly in the sun, was now firmly in the shade.

That settled it.

Dripping wet, she hauled herself onto the bank, searching for a stick.

Like she was picking up a particularly horrifying bug, she slipped the end through the ring and let it slide to hit the connecting branch.

“Bilbo! Bilbo! Where the hell are you!?”

Frey sounded hysterical. Frey didn’t care. She was half dressed, barefoot and dripping wet. She didn’t care about that either.

“Bilbo get your miserable halfling ass out here and take back satan’s costume jewelry! I mean it Bilbo! Get the fuck out here where I can see you!”

The dwarves that were lounging about the sunlight flung themselves to their feet as they heard her bellowing approach, looking at the distance for attackers. About half of them trailed after her as she continued her search. Some of them were probably chasing thinking she was about to attack their hobbit, but she couldn’t be bothered to give a damn what they thought just then.

Evil magic ring had to be the priority.

It was evil after all.

“Where are you Bilbo!? I don’t even want to look at this thing! There’s a reason hobbits make the best Ringbearers! Y’all don’t want shit! I want all kinds of things! I want a jacuzzi! I want a goddamn steak! Where did you go?! Get out here before I trade this thing for a venti frappucino and some Midol! Where the fuck are you? You aren’t invisible, I’ve got the fucking thing that lets you do that! Which means I’m going to find you Bilbo Baggins! Where the fuck --”

She batted away a low bough to cut beneath an enormous oak tree, on her way to the flower fields, and stopped dead. Frey was still holding out the branch with the ring, but had absolutely forgotten what she was doing. Walking in on a hobbit pinned to a tree by the dwarf who seemed to have mistook said hobbit for a popsicle had that effect.

Thorin was completely unbothered by being interrupted mid-lick, laughed actually, with his hands still on bare hips. Bilbo jumped away with some awkward fumbling of his hands out of hair and scrambling for his coat to provide himself some decency.

Frey just gaped like a caught fish while the hobbit strode over with what dignity he could while bareassed beneath a tree. Then her mind caught up and a blush burned over her cheeks.

“ _Ohmyring_.”

He plucked it from the end of the stick and awkwardly held it when he realized he had no pockets he could reach without shifting his coat.

There was a moment when Freya stared helplessly at Bilbo, not sure if she should flee before Thorin stopped laughing, or if she should start trying to explain the ring while she had the chance. Bilbo was looking at her expectantly. Her mind just couldn’t seem to sort out what it needed to do.

The sound of the rest of the dwarves approaching behind her served to get her moving again, and she fled as Thorin’s laugh chased her.

“Frey?” Nori asked at the front of the group.

“No. No. No. No.” She flung her arms out to the side, flapping at them to try and get them walking any direction but where they were about to go, “Let’s everyone go another direction. No need to be looking in that direction. Nope. None. Privacy is great. Nope. Not that way. Go. Get along. Walk. Go.”

Fíli and Nori mumbled to each other.

“ _Giveusamoment_.” Fíli said to the rest, then stepped forward with Nori and gave her a look she was used to receiving as they asked what she assumed was, ‘What the hell was that?’

She blushed harder.

Scrubbed at her eyes.

Nori took Fili’s cue and headed toward the tree to investigate.

And that would be worse.

So she smacked him with the stick that she had been too flummoxed to drop, and said, “Bagginshield.”

Quizzical stares.

“Bagg—in—shield.”

Still didn’t work.

Pointedly staring at Nori, she gestured helplessly for a moment, then groaned, knowing what would work. If Nori had a mind as dirty as fanon thought, it would work just fine.

She took pity on the nephew and tilted Nori aside, resorting to the only gesture that could rapidly convey what she had just seen.

“Bilbo? Thorin?”

Now, in her defense, she was startled and confused by the ring, then gobsmacked by what she had walked in to see.

All the same, she regretted it instantly when she mimed a blow job. Nori watched her in shock for long enough that she actually repeated it, thinking it had been unclear. The second time she added tongue to cheek action.

Then he started to snicker.

Fíli had edged closer while she was focused on the star headed jerk that was now giggling like a madman. She knew Fíli had seen the tail end of the motion, and was hoping that she wouldn’t have to go for a third performance. Fíli mumbled in what Frey was pretty sure was khuzdul.

Nori burst out into cackles, and managed a single word in reply.

Then the crown prince of the line of Durin turned a delightful scarlet.

All the way from his beard to his ears. Bright red. Even what she could see of his neck. Bright. Bloody. Red.

That was a great sight, and she’d have taken a moment to memorize it, or mock him, even though she was a similar shade, except, there was a very distinctive rhythmic sound from behind her. Frey was willing to cave to a great many things, but this was a step or a hundred too far, even for her.

Panicking a bit, she smacked both dwarves, babbling loudly and between the three, corralled the rest across the field, back toward the house. Not that she was paying much attention. She had new goals. Very very important goals.

Away from where she was to start. Then she needed a distraction.

Somewhere in that house there had to be alcohol, and she had a dwobbit blow job in her brain now.

Hopefully with enough of the former she could erase the latter.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo turned back to Thorin, slipping the ring into the inner pocket of his coat that he couldn’t reach before. It was a wise decision. There wasn’t enough time for more than that before Thorin had snagged him.

He quite sincerely hoped that Beorn wasn’t able to talk to the trees as well as he was able to speak with the animals. This particular oak was getting quite a spectacular show.

Oh sweet Yavanna have mercy on her child, but Bilbo could understand why she was married to the maker of the Dwarves. He’d already known that Thorin kissed like he’d been poisoned and the only cure was hobbit. He had already experienced just how blasted strong Thorin was when he decided to trap him against a wall in some empty office and nibble and nip and suck his way from the tip of his ear to the hollow of his throat and back up the other side. And Bilbo couldn’t have gotten away even if he’d been inclined to try.

Those hands, the muscles. The scars, which he knew it was entirely unhobbitish to find so attractive -- but that crop had already been reaped, thank you very much -- just made him seem to be a legend writ in front of him. The way Thorin, full of apologies, and a frantic need to make clear how much Bilbo meant to him, had been converting him into a useless pile of former hobbit at every opportunity, and demurring at Bilbo’s every offer to reciprocate.

Yes, fine, alright, it may have been motivated by a bit of a sarcastic retort from Bilbo while they wandered in the gardens.

Well, of course, yes, there wasn’t any denying that Bilbo had possibly implied that Thorin needed to make amends.

There was a chance he’d muttered something about putting Thorin’s mouth to better use than the insults he’d spat in the mountains and the kisses that had begun to apologize.

That it had resulted in Thorin on his knees, while Bilbo struggled not to snatch him bald was just a fortunate happenstance.

Not that Bilbo argued when a furred coat was tossed to the ground and he was pressed into it, nor when Thorin’s mouth closed over the head without warning or pause. He did try not to make any noise as he was sucked off with more skill than he’d known existed in this world. A voice in the back corner of his mind tried to mention that his superfluous compliments were likely due a combination of thrill and terror and deprivation in the last weeks.

He ignored that voice.

Namely because Thorin’s tongue was tracing circles and his hand was pumping and, oh but it was just amazing. Thorin was a fast study, and while this was new territory for them, what with the lack of clothing, apparently the handful of minutes practice he’d had before they were interrupted were enough to tell the dwarf how to master the art.

Bilbo whimpered a bit as Thorin picked up the pace, and planned to say something about teasing being a rather rude way to apologize, but then there were fingers on his tongue and his mind shut down.

He sucked them in deeper, grateful for Thorin’s long reach, and flickered his tongue against the seam between the two.

A pleased growl reverberated around him, and Bilbo had a new reason to love that incredible bass voice. That had felt like nothing he’d ever imagined. And his desire for it to happen again must have been obvious, or, more likely, he’d just bitten down on the knuckles he could feel between his teeth, but for whatever reason, Thorin rumbled once more.

And, with a cry, Bilbo came.

It would have been polite to offer a helping hand, or hands, or mouth, or really whatever Thorin felt inclined towards putting to use. Before Bilbo had blinked the fireworks out of his eyes though, Thorin had finished himself in a few sharp strokes, spilling over his hand and the grass.

They both moaned as they tangled over each other, nuzzling gently closer and breathing hard. Thorin might not have had any appreciation for the way the chirping of birds made a song with the wind and the rustling leaves, but Bilbo did. There wasn’t much better in this world than to lie in a garden after a bit of sex. It was calm and relaxing and the way Thorin scooped him closer and closer until finally just settling a mostly boneless hobbit on his chest cemented a small smile on Bilbo’s face.

Thorin draped his discarded shirt over Bilbo’s exposed bum and gave it a light pat.

“Ridiculous dwarf.”

“I’ll not contest that description.”

“Very good, otherwise you’d just lose the argument, because you are, clearly, a dwarf, and you believe that you can reclaim your mountain with a company of thirteen, even though the wizard who most of us were thinking would be quite helpful has decided to wander off with barely more than a by your leave.” He tempered his retort with the gentle tracing of his fingers over the tattoos on Thorin’s chest.

“We do not need him.”

“Mmm, some of us might disagree there. Though, I suppose we are replacing Gandalf with Freya. Maybe she’ll be more useful.”

Not the best thing to mention. Even in post-coital languor, Thorin tensed below him. Bilbo had planned to bring this up today. He had overheard Dwalin’s little tirade, watched Balin’s very subtle lecture, and knew that the right move from him would end the discussion. Then they could know what was going on at long last.

“Don’t be like that.”

“It is difficult for me to trust those newly met.” Thorin growled. There was something about the way he said it, about his tone, that had Bilbo lifting on an elbow to meet his eye.

“Is that for me or for her?”

The answer was obvious before Thorin looked away and whispered, “Both.”

“Why is that?”

“It is not… after Frerin was lost, and Víli…. No, that would not be enough for you to understand. The explanation is far broader than you may wish it to be. I can see you want to correct whatever it is I say, and I can assure that it is not so simple.”

Kissing Thorin from above him always made Bilbo’s head spin a bit. Even tender kisses like this to encourage him. “Are you willing to tell me? Or will I need to pry the details out of your kin? They tend to be rather talkative.”

That wasn’t meant to sound threatening. He hadn’t even considered making it a threat until he saw the way that Thorin was closing off every entrance. Then Bilbo twisted his words to make them a strike and make it entirely clear that Bilbo was going to have this story in the open today, whether he heard it from Thorin or in pieces from Dwalin and Balin and the boys.

“Will you allow me a moment to gather my thoughts? Or must I begin at once?” The wry smile was belied by the tightness of his voice, so Bilbo just nodded, and settled down against his chest.

He traced lines and blocks and knots of ink over skin, and waited.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin could feel the moment when Bilbo dozed off.

Hardly surprising considering what they had been doing.  

His fingers ceased their movements and his breathing relaxed. Thorin lifted his head to press a kiss to his hobbit’s hair. Answering the question would be an unpleasant thing.

It was hardly a clear answer in his own mind. Even now, days after the danger had passed and he was no longer overcome with a frantic need to keep his Company safe from her, it was difficult to explain why he so distrusted her.

A memory so distant it had not emerged in his mind until he lay on an eagles back was at the crux of it. The implications of that memory though…. They were preposterous, he knew that. He knew that it was impossible for his memory from Azanulbizar to be the same person.

And yet, impossible or not, his gut reaction was to distrust her. His instant thought on seeing her in the Shire had been that she was a traitor and a risk. His only instinct had been to keep her as far from his Company as possible.

But the one then, whoever that had been. They had carried a scar that bisected their eyebrow. It would still be visible. Not to mention her age. It couldn’t have been Freya.

Which meant that he now had to explain to Bilbo why he was so overwrought on the subject, without sounding utterly mad.

Perhaps if he explained the attempts on the boys?

Bilbo understood that protectiveness. He would understand once Thorin had told him a few of the stories that there had been efforts against the boys’ lives that so closely matched her actions as to be almost comical. He had laughed several times over the situation, seeing her try to claim prophecy or an inexplicable knowledge of things that could aid them.

He had heard that lie before.

And he would never trust such a speaker.

There lay the problem.

He could not trust her, but it seemed every other member of the Company did, save Bofur, Dori and himself.

Thorin had heard lectures and tirades from his oldest friends. His nephews had sworn on their own honor that she could be trusted, and still, he could not look at her and see anything but a viper in the grass.

Dwalin was right about one matter though.

If he did not trust her then the best place to keep her was close. Within range of orcrist, ideally.

That matter was already decided.

What was left was placating the hobbit currently nuzzling into his chest.

Bilbo wanted to understand, as he always did. That curiosity was surely how Bilbo had learned as much khuzdul as he had. That determination had saved his nephews’ lives.

Thorin was going to have to answer. And he owed it to Bilbo to give him a truthful answer.

Whatever they were, and Thorin had no word for it given he could still taste salt on his tongue, despite the lack of braids, but whatever they were, and whatever they were going to become in the future, Thorin would not lie to him.

Except the truth would not cast him a favorable light.

He growled without knowing it.

“You think too loud.” Bilbo mumbled.

Thorin ran curls over his fingers, sorting knots and snarls.  “Did I wake you with my thinking?”

“Wasn’t asleep.”

“Yes you were, there was very nearly drool. Did I tire you out? I would have thought a hobbit to have better stamina, after all you —”

Bilbo cut off the teasing insinuation with a kiss.

“Shush you. I’ll have you know that hobbit stamina is nothing to be trifled with.” He was up on his elbows, still naked and still tucked against Thorin with nothing more to cover him than the undershirt Thorin and thrown over him. The dwarf at least had retained his breeches.

Languidly, he kissed him, and tightened his hand over the plump curve of his ass.

“No, nope, you aren’t— Thorin — no, you aren’t going to distract me!” Bilbo said between kisses. “We can distract each other after, but you sir, promised me an explanation. You just wanted a moment to gather your thoughts. Well. Have you gathered them?”

“Such as they are.”

“I’ll accept whatever you have to give at this point.”

Thorin pecked a kiss to Bilbo’s nose and slid his hand around a hip.

Bilbo jumped up and shimmied into his trousers before returning to sit at his side. “There, see? No distractions, and no canoodling, until you manage to stumble your way through whatever it is that you really ought to have told me before.”

Bilbo crossed his arms over his bare chest, and it was such a false show of bravado that Thorin could not help but smile.  

“Come over here then.” He held out his arms towards his hobbit, and once the glower had dissolved, Bilbo settled back into him.

Really, all this moving back and forth was unnecessary and irritating.

“Balin told you of the greater events of Azanulbizar, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Did he tell you of my brother Frerin?”

“Only that he fell during the battle.”

Thorin made a somewhat strangled grunting noise in aggravation. If Balin had recounted the entirety of the story Thorin would be saved this trouble and the subsequent ridicule.

“A few days before the final battle, a stranger arrived in camp. They were brought to my tent where I was meeting with Frerin and Fundin, planning the offensive for the coming days. The guards labelled her a prophet. She was a slight thing, and I must admit that I payed little attention to her as she rambled.”

“Thorin….” That was a tone that made it clear Bilbo already doubted him.

“Let me continue,” Thorin interrupted the scowling tone, “All I truly recall of them is this: A strange accent, limited vocabulary, and a scar over their eye. But since they were rambling about Azog wanting to kill us, which were entirely aware of, we soon dismissed her. I did not see her again. We entered the battle, following plans that should have succeeded had the Pale orc not managed to reach my grandfather and break the vanguard that defended him. You know of what occurred then.”

Bilbo squeezed his hand in a show of solidarity and consolation.

“After the battle, a runner came to me at speed, to tell me that Frerin was in the healing tents, and asking for me. He was hardly coherent, he was,” He swallowed, still raw at the memory of the sight inside that tent, “he was dying, and far beyond any mortal’s skill to save. But he spoke with great purpose. I do not know how much of what he told me was true. I do not know if any of it was true. The pain made it difficult for him to speak, and it surely had clouded his judgement.

“He told me that the stranger had appeared near him on the field during the battle and, despite having no skill with a weapon, sought to protect him.” Thorin smiled, “My brother was ever the optimist. He always hoped that those he met would be just the same as the stories he’d read as a child. He turned his back on her as she fought, and continued the battle. The next he knew she was gone, the orcs had advanced without her there to hold them back, and he was cut off from the remainder of his force.”

“Thorin don’t tell me that you think—“

“I do not. I know that would be impossible. I am only telling you this because I cannot seem to separate the thoughts. And this was far from the only time that such a thing has occurred.

“Dwarves are a superstitious people, Óin should be evidence enough of that. We are prone to believe every prophet and seer that crosses our paths.”

“Not you.”

“No, I have rarely believed them. Ever since the seer that came to Erebor promising a glorious future. His declarations were only just faded from their echoes when the dragon attacked. Then the portents swore that we would take Khazad-dum back from the enemy.”

“They may have believed they spoke the truth.” Bilbo interjected.

He snarled at that.

“It does not matter what they believed. Even if they believed they told the truth, all that they did was subvert the safety and protection of my people.” Bilbo stroked along his arm until Thorin calmed again.

“My apologies.”

“And this is why you do not trust her?”

“There is more.”

“Of course there is.”

“And what does that mean?”

“That means nothing is ever simple with you dwarves. So go on, tell me the rest, and maybe it will start to make sense.”

“There have been several attempts to break the line of Durin by attacking my ingadân.”

“Several? How many times, they’re barely adults.”

Thorin glared substantially at that, even though Bilbo could not see his face. “Repeated attempts.” Nine that he knew of, four that had actually reached the boys. He knew every one of them, he knew every dwarf that had been implicated in them, and he knew what each of them had looked like dead. Most by his own hand. But he did not plan to tell Bilbo that. “Assassins rarely care about the age of their target.”

“And this relates how?”

“Multiple times they managed to incorporate themselves into the council or the guard. They came with all the right words and all the right promises. They swore to protect the line of Durin, to keep it safe, and then broke that oath. You will have to forgive my reluctance to blindly trust someone incapable of even answering our questions.”

Bilbo tensed in his arms, and Thorin forced himself to stop the escalating yell.

“The worst was just after Fíli turned thirty. There was a dwarf from the Firebeard clan, who came claiming that he was the court seer. He claimed all manner of things that my council wanted to hear. And they believed him. They overruled my reluctance to allow his presence.”

The dwarf had been charming and kind, never a rude word, never started a fight. He was temperate, and gentle with the dwarflings. He had spent six months building that persona, until even Thorin had begun to doubt his unease about him.

“Then one night the household was woken by Kili’s screaming for help.” His voice broke saying it, but he knew that any omission or falsity would be noticed by his too clever hobbit. “We ran, of course, and found Kíli in the hall. Their father Víli got there first. He managed to get the dwarf off of Fíli, but did not survive. He had run in unarmed, and did not think before leaping to defend his eldest.”

Bilbo had turned when Thorin had grown emotional, and watched with sympathy and anger as the tale concluded.

“Had I followed my instinct, it would never have happened, and the boys would have their father.”

His hobbit waited for more, and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead when none came. “Thorin, I understand that you worry. You should it seems. I understand that there have been terrible events in your past that you never wish to happen again. I even understand that whatever happened at Azanulbizar reminds you of Freya.” Thorin scowled at the name and Bilbo repeated it testily, “Freya, however, has not — goodness sake, if she wanted you dead she has had opportunity. If she wanted to hurt the boys, she could have. She — Listen to me Thorin, she chased us up a mountain through a storm. She followed us across the wilds. And I know you have heard this from Balin, and from Dwalin and from the boys, but you are going to hear it again from me, and may your maker have mercy on you if you don’t listen this time, Thorin Oakenshield.

“When she followed us into the mountains, she believed that you were going to be killed by Azog, and, no, I do not know what she believed was waiting for me with the Goblins, but I do believe she was trying to help. After everything you had done to drive her away, she still followed and carried medicine for you. You do not have to like her. You do not have to trust her. You must allow her to travel with us, and you must allow Ori and the boys and I to speak to her and try to find out what else she believes is coming.

“You are willing to put your faith in the thirteen of us to reclaim a mountain over nothing more than Gandalf’s good word in our chances. Put your faith in us now, please Thorin. I swear we will not allow her any opportunity to hurt them, but if she knows even a single thing that will help me to keep you alive, then it is worth the risk.”

Bilbo was frowning, and finished with his mouth in a taut line, holding back something more that he was trying not to say aloud.

“Bilbo…”

“I think it should be more than clear by now that I don’t want you to die Thorin, please stop asking me to explain that.”

“I wasn’t.  Bilbo, I wasn’t. I already have agreed for her to travel with us, which perhaps I should have said at the beginning of this. I would like you to speak with her. I trust you.”

“I thought you didn’t trust easily.” he grumped.

“I don’t.”

“So why—“ Thorin had a hand around the back of Bilbo’s head and pulled him in for a lengthy kiss. “Not — fair — answer — question.”

He brought their foreheads together.

“Amralîme.”

Bilbo humped, “I don’t know that word. I’ve not heard it before.”

Thorin smirked, “I should hope not.”

 

* * *

 

Freya was drunk.

Not excessively. She would probably still be able to stand if she tried, not that she had in the last few hours. But most definitely drunk.

Nori had seen a lot of folks get drunk.

Something of an expert on the subject now.

She was right at that sweet point where he could ask for her coin purse and she’d just hand it over.

But as she had no coin purse, he’d found another way to amuse himself.

His kid brother had spent a few hours talking at her, explaining some of the more fundamental bits and pieces of language that she looked increasingly grateful to know. She now had a decent understanding of questions and the more basic answers. She also had a number of useful object words that she had delightedly pointed out upon learning them. It had been going great. Learning was happening.

Even Dwalin had snuck into the corner to keep an eye on things and nod approvingly at Ori’s successes.

Then Dori had come in, and Nori had added another word to Frey’s vocabulary.

It’s not like he’d know that she was going to repeat after him when he told Dori to take the stick out of his ass.

But she did. And with remarkable clarity.

Naturally, Dori had stomped back out the door in a huff. Ori had followed, trying to apologize. Before the door shut, they’d all heard Ori shouting that she hadn’t known what she said.

There were a few quiet moments before Dwalin started to chuckle in the corner.

It was getting rather too obvious that there was an infatuation there. Nori already had a plan to help Ori show off that brand new spine of his.

But that wasn’t the point.

After the language learning fell apart, Fíli and Kíli had gone looking for something to eat. Their bear-host had been missing all day, without a word of explanation, and there was only so long a young dwarf could go before they started gnawing on their own arm.

In their defense, they did come back with bread and  honey. They just also came back with a barrel of mead and a Man-sized cup. It hadn’t Freya taken more than a few seconds to realize what it was and commandeer the cup, flicking Kíli in the ear when he tried to take it back.

After emptying it, they had sat in a circle, mostly on the ground; the princes, Dwalin, Nori and Frey, and passed the cup around.

Usually the pisswater that men made and tried to pass off as alcohol had about as much kick as a kitten. This wasn’t the normal drink he had encountered. It didn’t even taste like spirits, that was the worst of it. It tasted sweet and mellow and just felt nice and warm as they drank it.

So it wasn’t until Frey shrieked as a tiny spider ran over her leg that Nori really noticed how much she’d had to drink.

It was nothing poisonous, hardly even big enough that they’d feel a bite from it. So it was a few steps past bizarre that Frey attempted to smash it to death. She noticed the look she was getting, and snapped back at them with a scowl of judgement, “ _Youhavenoidea_. _None_. _Noneofyougetityet_. _Youhavenoideajusthowmuchyouregoingtohatethem_.”

“So what do you have against spiders?” Kíli asked while rescuing the thing and tossing it toward the corner.

“Spi—ders?”

Kíli mimed and repeated.

“Spiders. Mirkwood.” She sort of spat the word out.

“You hate spiders because of Mirkwood lass?”

“Mirkwood is spiders.” She said haltingly. “Spiders?” she framed a little space between her fingers and shook her head. “No. Mirkwood? Spiders.” She held her arms out to show something the size of a pony. “Spiders.”

Dwarves knew that many of the other races weren’t fond of spiders. Since there were some nasty characters in history descended from giant spiders made by the enemy, it made some sense. But for the most part, they’d never minded the little fellows.

So they laughed at her hyperbole.

Loudly.

“ _OhyouthinkImjoking? Adorable. Giveitamonthyoutwats. Giantfuckallspidersaregoingtotrytoeatyou. Becauseeverythingtriestoeatyou. Youninniesmustbedelicious. Thenyoullbeonmyside. Jackasses_.” A second spider crawled up onto her hand, and she beat it to death with enough force to kill an orc.

“Frey, don’t worry, we’ll protect you from the spiders in Mirkwood.” Kíli said with a patronizing pat on her arm.

She leaned toward him, snagging the cup from his hand. “ _Ohyouregonnaowemeanapology_ , Kíli.”

She refused to give the cup back til after it was empty.

Now here they were. Very drunk, and playing a game with the lass that had plagued them for months. Because it turned out that, when she was drunk, she’d copy just about anything they prompted her to say.

“Mibilkhagas.”

“Mybulkhaggis.”

Sort of copy.

“Never trust an elf.“ Kíli added sagely.

“Ne’er trust an elf. _Wait. Whataboutelves? Ilikeelves. Well. Ilike_ Glorfindel. _Hespretty. Wegotdrunkin_ Rivendell.”

“Kakhaf.” Dwalin muttered.

“Kakhaf.”

“Not Khuzdul.” Fíli growled.

“Not Khuzdul.” She dutifully repeated, “Oh Fili, _butIknewthosewordsalready_.”

“Don’t make my uncle angrier.”

“Don’t make my un—uncle angier.”

“Maybe that’s the point.” Nori snapped back.

“Maybe thasss the point.”

“You bastard, I thought you didn’t want her to get killed?”

“You basta— _mmgh_.” Fíli clapped a hand over her mouth. He seemed to be all set to try and lecture Dwalin and Nori for it, but pulled his hand back with a shout. While he wiped his palm on his trouser leg, she stuck out her tongue and gestured at Dwalin.

“Words?”

“I smell awful.” Dwalin smirked behind his beard.

“I smell awful.”

“Orc licking whore.”

“Orc licking whore. Orc? _Whyareyouhavingmesay_ orc, Nori?”

“Nori, behave.”

“Yeah, otherwise Fili’s going to get all grumpy.”

“Fart.”

“Fart.”

“Are you two younger than us?”

“Shit.”

“Shit.”

“This is ridiculous.”

When it had turned into a contest between Dwalin and Nori on who could find the most ridiculous thing for her to say, he wasn’t sure, but Nori wanted to win.

“Karhk.”

“Karhk.” That got Nori smacked by both princes.

“Faslk.” Dwalin retaliated.

“Falsk. No. Fasal. Fasalk. Faslak. Faslk. Faslk? Faslk!” She echoed, tripping over the syllables. She had made it much worse with most of her slips. It just made two of the dwarves laugh harder. The other two were starting to blush. Which they should have known better than to do. Never let someone see where to hit. Nori flashed a look at Dwalin, and saw the same amusement there.

They were going to have to torment the boys.

“Binikhgis fasli.”

“Bin—Binikhgis fasli.”

“Marlumên.” Dwalin said with a smug look at the prince.

“Dwalin…” Fíli threatened.

“Marlumên!”

“Faslake.”

“Nori!” Fíli snapped, and Dwalin and Nori cackled.

Instead of the usual repetition, there was only silence.

Under her breath, she started to mutter, very softly, trying to solve a puzzle while clouded by drink. “ _Waitasecond._ Fasl? _DontIknowthatword? WhydoIknowthatword?_ Fasl. Fasl. Faslk?”

She looked up, staring at Fili’s annoyance, then at Nori and Dwalin’s amusement.

“Faslk.”

Nori knew that Frey had known a few words of khuzdul. Nothing much of use, but she’d used them once or twice.

He hadn’t expected her to know the know the word for cock.

Suddenly the lass they’d come to know was back. Standing and shouting and flapping at them like an angry bird, and about as dangerous.

“ _Youjackass! Whatthefuckhaveyoubeenmakingmesay? Itrustedyou! Youtraitoroussonofacocksuckingwhore! Okayfine. Iobviouslydontmindswearing! ButIliketoknowImdoingit! Comeon! Letsgofight! Rightnow! Youdruggedme! AndIthinkyoujustmademeproposition_ Fíli! _Letsgo! Outside! Rightnow_ Nori!”

Kíli pulled her back down, and shoved the cup in her hand. Fíli shifted to keep her from lunging over and trying to beat Nori.

All to the best. She was a bit ruffled.

He made a show of refilling the cup and handing it back to her, letting her drink it down a second time. Mead was helpful in getting her forgiveness, and after a few minutes of the boys glaring and her muttering, she got distracted by her own shoe.

The dwarves reclaimed the cup and started drinking again, mostly quiet, and Nori could still feel the grump in the room.

Into that mood, she interrupted, “I am Dwalin.”

It was a decent mimic of his growly voice.

They cheered hard enough at that she ended up doing more with a broad smile. Her version of Ori had been all wide eyes and considering looks, but she ended it with a substantial look and wink at Dwalin, that none of them missed. Not any more than they missed the way Dwalin went bit pink at being called out on it.

She was taking a bit of her own back.

Nori knocked her sideways when her impersonation of him involved pinching her nose.

“ _Whatswrongwiththat_?” She laughed from the ground, “ _Itswhatyousoundlike! Also_ ,” She pointed right at him and declared, “Bofur.” with the same look she’d given Dwalin.

The guard looked at Nori for a long minute and chuckled tauntingly.

The princes were as well, only interrupted when she tapped Kíli on the shoulder to get his attention.

She copied his doe eyes so well that Fíli spat mead. Then she dropped her jaw lower, shuffled hair into her face and glared. Fíli laughed so hard she had to stop and smack him in the back to try and help him breathe.

“ _Sillyliondwarf_ ,” she murmured as she patted him on the head once he was back to normal.

Frey didn’t seem to be quite so angry when she was drunk. Matter of fact, if anyone was asking for Nori’s opinion, they ought to just keep her drunk from here to the mountain.  Much more pleasant to sit with. Much more forgiving.

But he looked up in time to see her Thorin impression and struck a line through that plan.

Their fearless leader wasn’t going to take kindly to it if he ever saw it. She scowled, and grumped, and growled, slipping her own name into the muttering. Then Fíli held up a hand in a fake puppet and labelled it Bilbo.

Freya switched at once to blinking and half swooning. The boys cracked up louder than before.

“Even she can see it! Ha! Can’t they just make an announcement already?” Kíli yelled.

“Course she can see it, she walked in on em having at it, lad.”

The other three dwarves spun to look at him, and Nori smirked. He’d thought that Fíli had understood what he was seeing before. Apparently not.

“We’re gonna have to tell Gloin. There’s a purse’ll need to pay out.” Dwalin half shouted. He was more sober than the rest, but that didn’t say much. “You saw ‘em lass? Thorin and Bilbo?” Dwalin ended with waggled eyebrows.

“Thorin and Bilbo?” She repeated blankly.

“You saw them.”

“Fíli _Idontunderstand._ Oh no. _IthinkIhadtoomuchofthisstuff. Is_ Dwalin _angryatme? Heseemsangry._ ”

She tilted over to try and whisper secretly. Came out at full volume. And he didn’t had a damned clue what she was saying.

“Frey,” Nori snapped his fingers and got her attention. He pointed and gestured his way through a question, “You saw Thorin and Bilbo today, yeah?”

She blinked a bit slowly and Nori decided that she’d not be having any more of the mead. Then her whole face lit up and she nodded, catching up to what had been asked.

“Oh! OH! _YesIdidsee_ — Yes. Yes. Thorin and Bilbo.” She nodded enthusiastically, then tried to copy the way Dwalin had wiggled his eyebrows to imply a bit of horizontal dancing. It went poorly. Her eyebrows didn’t seem to care what she wanted them to do, and she eventually tried to force them to move using her hands. “ _Fuckittheydontwanndothat_.”

She gave up.

“Thorin. Bilbo.” And she pumped an imaginary cock in front of her face.

Somehow that was enough to crack through the shell of drunken abandon and get the princes to realize they were talking about their uncle. The both of them went from laughing to horrified so fast they probably hurt themselves. Frey noticed. Pumped her hand again and said seriously, “Bilbo. Thorin. Faslk.”

Then dissolved into laughter of her own against Kíli’s shoulder.

Dwalin picked it up from there, tormenting the boys with a lewd set of comments Nori was only too happy to support.

“So Thorin finally managed to find a helping hand, did he?”

“Helping mouth I’m pretty sure.”

“Aye, seems more like by what she’s saying.”

“Ya know the hobbit loves to eat.”

“ _WaitIthinkyouhaveitbackwards_.”

“Probably pretty good at it.”

“Better be if he’s kneeling for a king.”

“ _Hangonyoutwoassholes_.”

“Not that Thorin’ll mind either way.”

The boys were trying to blush themselves out of existence, and Dwalin and Nori, drunk enough by now to not care, were amending their descriptions with a few gestures of their own. Nori’s miming got him smacked in the arm.

Frey was back to glaring.

“No. No.” She held up a finger and sounded so serious they boys came up from hiding in their hands. Their mistake. “Thorin?” she tapped her knees and pointed at her mouth. “Bilbo? Falsk.” She gestured at her crotch.

Frey nodded shortly, like everything was all cleared up after that.

“Now hang on lass. Yer gonna tell me that Thorin was the one on his knees?”

She puzzled at Dwalin a minute, “Thorin _wasveryhappywith_ Bilbo _allpantslessandinhismouth. Dontjudge_ Dwalin. _Itsreallyfun._ ” She wagged her finger at them before getting distracted looking for the cup with the mead. It was empty, and hiding behind Kíli, not that she needed to know that.

“Thorin?” Dwalin tapped his knees.

She tapped her knees with a crooked smile.

Dwalin returned it, then bellowed as he jumped to his feet, “Gloin! Gloin, where are ya? You owe me coin!”

 

* * *

 

Fíli wasn’t sure how any of the five of them had managed to even stand up the next morning, let alone climb onto ponies. He was fairly sure he was still drunk.

If they managed to reclaim the mountain, he was going to spend most of his share buying any quantity of that mead that Beorn would be willing to sell him. It had been enough to put them all pretty soundly on their collective asses. They were _dwarves_ , that meant it had to be something pretty incredible. There were substantial gaps in his memory of the previous evening. That was just impressive.

He drank another water skin empty and saw his brother with the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. Dwalin just looked grumpy, but hadn’t even greeted Ori, so he must be half dead.

Nori had clearly stolen something from Oin’s bag since he wasn’t tipped sideways over a log.

The rest of the company had chuckled and placed bets on their discomfort.

Freya was green.

Covered in packs once again, no longer limping, and hugging an uncomfortable looking Beorn around the middle.

But decidedly green.

The shape changer removed her, and placed her on the pony at the end of the group.

Thorin shouted for them to move out.

Fíli wasn’t the only one who flinched.

At least they weren’t expecting any problems until they got to Mirkwood, and at least now he  could try to keep their follower from getting killed chasing after them.

Well.

After the headache went away.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  [Meph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) is amazing beyond words. Without him I wouldn't have survived this. Go applaud and show some admiration. It is more deserved than I can ever say.
> 
> \--Strife
> 
>  
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  iklifumuni khuthâzu: damned elvish  
> mibilkhagas: tree fuckers  
> ingadân: near sons  
> Amralîme: My love  
> Kakhaf: butt  
> Karhk: cunt  
> Faslk: cock  
> Binikhgis fasli: swallow a dick  
> Marlumên: let’s have sex  
> Faslake: fuck me!


	15. Unforeseen Complications

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mirkwood is not a pleasant place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm spoiling you guys. Somehow this chapter is even longer than the previous **sigh**  
>  I just can't seem to shut up.
> 
>  If you haven't shown [Meph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) all the love. You should go do that now. Because soon it he will start posting the sequel to [Interludes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3791941/chapters/8440945). 

 

When Balin had agreed to help Thorin reclaim the mountain -- or more likely, die along the way if the beginning of their journey was a fair estimation -- he had expected to be what he had always been, an advisor. He would provide rational advice, he would present arguments and support for Thorin as they travelled, and, if by grace of Mahal, they actually succeeded, he would almost certainly need to serve as an ambassador and attempt to placate relations between the hotheaded heir of Durin and, well, everyone in the surrounding area.

He had not anticipated having to babysit a group of children.

Yet.

He couldn’t even decide who was the worst. His brother and their scribe were gawping at each other whenever they could. They were also attempting to talk, or maybe they were attempting to flirt. It was unclear. Which made it horrid to watch. His brother seemed to spend most of his time floundering and then apologizing for some flub. Ori would just babble on about things that Dwalin failed to follow.

They were absurd but in their defense, they hadn’t done anything untoward, just acted like they were about thirty as they rode their ponies beside each other all day long.

Balin couldn’t fault them, no matter how irritating it was to watch them be so unspeakably bad at everything they tried.

He could however, fault Nori and Bofur. The both of them were covered in bruises. Most of which seemed to be fist shaped. Not all. Their beards weren’t quite enough to hide several impressive purple constellations on their necks.

Not that they were admitting to this.

Only thing for it was to put them on opposite watches, and beg a favor from Oin, equally annoyed with all this nonsense. With a half deaf healer repeating everything he heard at the top of his lungs as he rode between them, it at least curtailed the proliferation of the bruises.

At the front of the line was his biggest irritation.

Thorin and Bilbo.

Balin had taken to grumbling whenever he saw either of them. There may have been a few moments when they weren’t riding beside each other, but those were rare. He had considered calling Thorin out on his behavior in camp one night after a particularly flirtatious day. He wasn’t in the mood to spar though. So instead he, and the rest of the company, tried to avert their eyes. With Dwalin’s assurance that another bet had to be payed out, the company was on tenterhooks waiting for one or the other of them to verbally acknowledge the relationship.

Their standards were slipping. Glóin was now willing to pay out based on the first time one of them used an endearment within earshot of a company member.

This meant that at all times someone had the unenviable job of trying to eavesdrop on them.

Balin had flatly refused to take up that burden.

So he rode in the middle of the group, able to see all of the misbehavior, from all of the various pairings that were really rather ridiculous since they were riding toward their doom in the form of an angry fire drake.

Fíli and Kíli had informed him that the worm lived.

It had dampened his mood somewhat.

There was, after all, a reason that the dwarves of Erebor had fled the mountain. They hadn’t been able to kill the thing. Girion had tried. With the best weapon available, and an open shot as it flew overhead, Girion, one of the best archers alive at the time, had been unable to kill the beast.

Their only true archer was Kíli.

Balin wasn’t hopeful.

Not that he doubted the lad’s skill, but well, dragons weren’t quite the same as bringing down a stag.

He sighed and glanced over his shoulder at the boys. Fíli was glaring as Kíli teased him over something. It was good to see that their spirits hadn’t fallen in the face of the task ahead, or the traumas behind.

Now, if they could just sort out something resembling a plan, Balin might remember how to smile.

Again, he wasn’t overly hopeful.

Because they had a new problem. One that no matter how he tried to pretend otherwise, Balin could not pretend he had seen coming.

Freya was avoiding them. Or, as well as she could while travelling with them.

Of all the things to have happened after months of her endless, infuriating pursuit, none of them would have expected it. Yet that was how it seemed to be going. No matter who tried to edge closer to her, no matter how they delayed, she would find a way to fall back, out of range to speak, or would edge her pony to the side of the line, out of comfortable earshot.

He had been told that the lass had chatted and listened to Ori on the last day at Beorn’s, that she had been half decent company after a quantity of mead had been poured down her throat.

Something in that interaction must have put her off from talking to them. She wasn’t talking to any of them, but Dwalin and Nori had been treated to some vulgar gestures whenever they got close.

The lads had slightly better luck.

But she still wouldn’t talk to them.

This was their last day of riding, and they would reach the forest by mid afternoon. Beorn had made it clear that the ponies were to be returned before they stepped onto the forest path. The last three days had been easy, which had no doubt contributed to the concentrated infantile behavior.

The evenings were spent running Ori and Bilbo through sparring exercises while Kíli eased back into using his bow after being gnawed on by a warg. With luck, the practice would increase Bilbo’s time before dying in a fight from two blows to five, maybe ten if the orc was particularly slow. Compared to how much fuss as he’d given on the subject as they left Rivendell, their hobbit was strangely agreeable on the subject.

Probably because he was working with Thorin now. And if he improved, he was going to get to whack him.

Ori had surprised everyone but Nori by being unexpectedly quick on the uptake. Since he had apparently laid claim to Dwalin’s hammer, he was being trained by Dwalin.

That was a bit uncomfortable to watch for Balin. Only because they did their best flirting then. Best, but still awkward and stilted.

He and Óin and Dori always sat to the side, ignoring all of the shenanigans around them. On the far side of camp, so far from the others it barely counted as being in camp, Freya would sit and stare out into the woods, not even coming closer to obtain food.

Balin sighed on a low stream of grumbled annoyances. Then he pulled on the reins and dropped behind to speak with Fíli and Kíli. They were the best hope he had to find out what had happened to change her song. They also needed to start thinking of a plan to kill a dragon. Thorin certainly hadn’t thought of one.

“Afternoon, Balin.” Fíli greeted, overriding whatever his brother had been saying. More teasing most likely.

“Lads. How much do the two of you recall about dragons from your lessons?” There was no sense in starting with the lesser problem. “Do you recall their weaknesses and their strengths? You remember the stories about Girion?”

Kíli groaned into his hands. “Oh no, you too. Balin, not you too. Fí already keeps saying I have to slay the thing. Can’t we just start training everyone else? Maybe Dwalin is great with a bow and just doesn’t know it yet!”

“He’s not.” He answered flatly. Balin had seen that effort. It wasn’t pretty.

“Then let’s just stop by the elves! They’re great with bows. I’ll give them half my share!”

Balin stared until Kíli melted back down with another groan.

“No one said you had to slay the dragon, laddie.”

“Fíli did!”

Fíli was smiling and trying not to. It was mostly soft amusement, but there was a definite vein of pride in it as well. Balin agreed. If Kíli could be given an appropriate weapon, and could be kept out of his own mind, and the doubts that always plagued him, he had as much a chance of killing Smaug as Girion had ever had.

Of course, Kíli really only had two attitudes. Cocksure to the point that he was reckless—as exemplified by their idiotic charge off of the tree. Or, hounded by every jab and insult that had been spit at him by visiting dwarves from the other clans.

Given his choice, he’d rather have the confidently obnoxious one face down the dragon.

“And I’m not saying that you have to kill the worm, but you are an archer. And we have good reason to think that it will take an archer to fell him. We have plenty of time to think of how it will be done before we get there.”

Some of the tension slipped out of him, and he nodded, trusting his childhood tutor.

“But we do need to find a plan.”

“Maybe Frey knows something else that’s more helpful.” Kíli volunteered, turning in the saddle to look for her.

She was separate again, riding along the side of the column, and looking into the patches of trees nearby as if she expected to see something.

Balin didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. He just shifted his best authoritative scowl onto Fíli and waited. It didn’t take long.

“I don’t know. Balin, I don't know.” The prince dragged a hand over his beard, “That first day she was a bit the worse for wear. Well, all of us were, as you know. Beorn makes excellent mead, and we really ought to try to get the recipe or purchase some after Kíli kills the dragon and we have a party.”

“See Balin!”

“But that first day was just recovery.”

Balin nodded, ignoring the younger heir. He’d actually won the purse on which of them would fall of the saddle first. It was Kíli.

“I didn’t think about it then. I thought she was just trying to avoid the shouting and the yelling. But she didn’t take the tea that Óin handed round at lunch. And it’s just gotten worse since. She won’t even talk to Ori.”

He must have missed Ori attempting that. He had known that the scribe had managed to teach her a number of useful words, and had been quite eager to work with her again. Ori enjoyed teaching enormously. He was also the least imposing of any of them, and she was still dodging him.

“Has anything else happened?”

“Nothing particular.”

“Fí. You ought to tell him.”

Fili’s growl was so close to the one Thorin used so often that Balin looked up for the Company’s leader.

“It’s not — och, fine Kí.” The prince turned and began to choose his words carefully. “You have noticed that she does not sleep near the rest of us when we make camp?”

Balin nodded. He was going to have to start up their lessons again. Between their excellent assessments on the presence of doors and their recent decision making skills, they clearly were in need of a reminder of the benefits of educated thinking.

“I thought it was just because she doesn’t like us much. Which, considering the last few months, I understand. Myself and Nori did drug her. Uncle has tried to kill her. You know all of this—“ He cut off and fiddled with his mustache again.

So Kíli jumped in to help. “We were on middle watch that first night because Uncle overheard us talking ‘bout New Uncle Bilbo.”

“Thank you Kíli, I was getting there. We were on middle watch. You know how it is on middle watch, not really all the way awake and so you think you have heard something that isn’t truly there?”

“Lad, is there a point to all this?”

“She has nightmares.” Kíli said shortly. “Bad ones.”

“So does Thorin, lad. Most of us do.”

Fíli and Kíli looked at each other for a moment. They’d always been able to hold a conversation without needing to speak.

“Not like this.”

“You agree that she’s some kind of seer, Balin?” Fíli pressed, “I think the dreams are what she sees. When she sees. We woke her, and she didn’t look… good. I checked on her again the next night and didn’t see any sign of a dream, but last night I did, and woke her again. Uh, after, she got up and walked into the dark for a while, talking to herself the whole time. Nori was on watch. He said she came back when the sun started to rise.

“And on the Carrock, I think she was having one then, too. She almost fell down the stairs.”

“Fili’s been paying _close_ attention to her, Balin.” Kíli added brightly.

Fíli shoved him.

“I have, because she knows what is coming, and none of us have liked the things that she has alluded to.”

“King Dain.”

“King Dain.” Fíli agreed.

“So what do you plan to do about it then, Fíli?” Balin asked, consciously using the tone he did with Thorin when operating in his formal capacity as an advisor. The prince heard it, recognized it, and raised his chin as he considered an answer.

“She does not trust us. That is is at the heart of the problem. She does not trust we do not mean her harm. She does not believe she is safe around us. So she is unwilling to talk to us. We need to know what she has seen. So we must convince her that she is a part of the company.”

“She’s not a part of the company nadad. Did you not hear uncle’s speech on that?”

“I did. That is the other problem. Thorin.”

“So what do you want to do about it?”

“We have to find a way to include her.”

“Even if she doesn’t want to be?”

“Aye.”

Kíli snorted, “Because it went so well when we tried to force her to do something before brother.”

Balin looked up at the sky and hummed a moment. The grey clouds moving toward them from the north promised that the warm day would not last.

“We will be in the forest by nightfall. The path is narrow, and she’ll not have much choice but to stay close while there. Unless she has less respect for her own life than we think, she will need to come closer. Then you can try to speak to her.”

“Ori.”

Balin and Kíli shared a quick look before turning back to Fíli. He returned it with obvious exasperation. “Last night when I woke her from a dream she tried to break my nose. We’ll send Ori. Bilbo too if we can separate him from Uncle.”

The three sorted out the lesser details, and continued their ride, enjoying the mercy of the ponies for as long as possible. Before the weather turned they had found the path, freed the animals, shouldered heavy packs, and begun to walk.

She stayed on the edge for a long time, staring at the receding ponies, searching for something Balin could not guess. He just heard her muttering Beorn’s name amidst a longer stream of incomprehensible gibberish. When she saw him watching she cut off and shook off his gestured concern.

The lads had been right, she wasn’t looking well.

Despite Fíli and Kili’s best efforts to coerce her forward to join the rest, Freya remained at the rear of the procession, and didn’t speak to any of them as they began the more dangerous task of crossing Mirkwood.

 

* * *

 

Mirkwood was not a pleasant place.

Ori was trying his best to make their journey seem appropriately noble and glorious. They were trying to reclaim their ancestral home from a dragon, it was somewhat inherent that the tale of it be noble and glorious.

Mirkwood was trying to prevent that.

Try as he did when he wrote down notes each evening, Mirkwood refused to seem glorious.

That might have had to do with the fact that they were having a bit of trouble keeping track of the path. They had been warned, repeatedly and at great length by the shape changer who had hosted them that if they lost the path they were going to die horrible deaths. But it was like the path didn’t want them on it. If Ori looked up from the half hidden stones for more than a step or two, he found himself pulled back to it by either his brothers or Dwalin.

And he most certainly didn’t fuss each time it was Dwalin, or worry that it was lowering the warrior’s opinion of him.

Fine. He was worrying. Extensively. And once, he actually fell over in his worry, but since it had been Dwalin that caught him…Well. He took better care after that point. There was no need to seem helpless.

Balin had taken one look at the path, one look at Thorin, and marched to the front to lead them through. Ori’s mentor had travelled it before, and recalled at least a general shape of where it was supposed to be. Thorin had wandered off it so many times already that Bilbo had threatened to tie a rope about his waist and lead him like a pony until they reached the other side. Whatever Thorin’s quiet reply had been made Bilbo turn bright red.

The first night under the trees wasn’t that bad all things considered.

They lit a fire, and swatted at the enormous moths and beetles that pestered them. Annoying, but not much worse than any other night. The princes sat down on either side of him, and, in very soft whispers asked him to try and talk to Freya again in the morning. They were hoping he could teach her a bit more language. Or learn something.

He had no objection, since he had noticed how she kept herself apart from all of the others. She had also never put on the binder Nori had loaned to her, despite agreeing to when they had finally caught her.

Ori woke eager and pleased.

The day went downhill from there.

The sheer force of concentration required to get one foot placed in front of the other was alarming. The trees crowded above them, and by midday the canopy was so dense, the company was trapped in a permanent dusk. They sat on roots and rocks and chewed on the dried fruit and flat bread they carried.

Personally, he thought their packs were overstuffed. Ori knew how large the forest was, and how long it should take to cross it— just about three weeks. He also know how much they ate, and how much they carried. It was a bit excessive.

More than a bit.

But better to have sore shoulders than an empty stomach. He smiled at that thought, and hoped he would remember it when he wrote notes that night.

When they started again, Fíli and Kíli were pointing and gesturing and encouraging him to go talk to Frey. They had taken up the rear of the line and were going to keep her from slipping behind.

Ori had already noted that the forest was worse at some times than at others. Sometimes just for a few steps, sometimes for a few hours, but there were definite patches of the forest where it felt terribly oppressive. Currently they were in one of the relatively pleasant and lively patches, so he allowed himself to be coerced.

“Hello.” He said it clearly and waved broadly as he stepped next to her.

“Ori.” That was not the voice of someone eager for company.

And the response from Fíli when he tried to step back was a bit of fairly explicit iglishmek.

He replied in kind.

There were advantages to being related to Nori. Today it was Fíli’s shocked outrage.

“Freya, I thought I would teach you more words.”

“No. Spiders.” She said, still staring suspiciously at a bit of cobweb as she walked.

Well, alright. Kíli had told him she seemed to have an aversion to spiders. However, they really did need her able to talk in more than mono phrases like a toddler.

Time to put his foot down. He actually tripped right after thinking that, and had to lunge to regain his balance. But he managed to gather some confidence before he spoke.

“Yes. Words.”

She didn't quite meet his eye, and she didn’t quite smile, but she did get close. Ori took it as permission, and picked up from where they had left off at Beorn’s.

“Yes. Well. You did very well with the questions that I was teaching you before, I suppose we should continue with the more useful words. Objects and such. Since we’re here and there’s not too much to look at I suppose we can start with this. Tree.” He pointed.

She pointed to a scrawny shrub. “Tree?”

“Bush.”

“Tree?” She tried again, and tapped a vine as they passed it.

“That’s a vine. That’s a tree.”

“Thassa tree.”

“That is a tree.”

She paused on the path a moment and shook her head. “That is? _Isthislikewhentheelvestaughtmeconjugation_? _Isitlike_ He is? She is? _Isthatwordljustageneralmeaning_? _Justagenerallabel_? That? That is tree. That is vine. That is _okactuallyidontknowwhatthefuckthatthingis_. That is Bombur. That and that and that and that?” She pointed to objects by turn and then looked at him for confirmation.

Ori beamed back and nodded. He pointed at just about everything around them labeling each with the same phrase. She probably only caught half. But it was progress. Once he had run out of things in the forest to label, he started to flounder.

They walked a little while in silence, and Ori didn’t notice she was drifting further from him with each step until the hiss from the princes caught his attention.

Yes. She was doing it again. They had warned him she would. She was slowly walking at a greater distance, placing herself between Ori and Dori ahead of him. Her eyes were fixated a few people down the line though, watching Bilbo intently for minutes at a time before shaking her head and searching the trees around them. She was still a bit pale, probably from the infection. She also had dark smudges below her eyes.

He needed to keep her attention then, since it seemed to wander off at random times. And he didn't know any other plant words.

He was a well read dwarf, but he was a dwarf in the end.

The idea came to him in a flash and he beamed. “Freya?”

Skittish, that was probably the best way for how she was behaving. Spooked and skittish, like a caught animal, and Ori didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he was a particularly intimidating dwarf, no matter how much he wished it was otherwise.

She didn’t run though.

“Hand.”  He held it up and pointed to it.

She agreed hesitantly and repeated. The accent really was awful. But he would address that later.

So Ori began to label every body part he could think of, with a few notable exceptions. He moved onto clothing, and then to weapons. Which she struggled with horribly. Ori’s efforts to mime the use of them had been met with a blank gaze.

Behind him, he knew that Fíli and Kíli were listening in, watching them more than keeping rear guard as they were supposed to be doing.

By the time they were setting up a fire for the night he had her full attention, and she was occasionally stopping him to ask more detailed questions. She struggled with some words so much he gave up. Fletching wasn’t worth the effort, even after Kíli loaned them an arrow as reference. So he left that at ‘arrow’ and moved on.

Scabbard was also a lost cause. She just couldn’t get the word out of her mouth.

He sat on a little pile of goodness knows what that was at a decent height for a seat. He left the stone next to it open, hoping she would take the invitation.

Ori saw her look from the circle of the company to the rock, and remained standing outside that invisible line of inclusion. She was still on the path. Mostly.

“Freya?” He gestured to the rock.

For a thin, awkward moment, he thought she would cave and sit down. Then her eyes looked behind Ori and he didn’t need to turn to know who was glaring at her from the other side of the camp.

“No.”

She walked away, and managed to get past the princes while they dropped packs onto the ground. Frey sat down against a tree, just close enough to be seen by whoever was on watch, but not a step closer.

Ori frowned at her, and tossed an iglishmek insult at Kíli when he got received look of offended indignation. If it was so easy to keep her in one place, they shouldn’t have any problem doing it.

“Don’t let Dori see you saying that.”

Dwalin sat on the rock with a weary groan and a little smile.

“Nori teach you that?”

“No.” Ori smiled a bit before answering somewhat bashfully, “Balin.”

The laugh it earned was loud and unexpected. “My brother?”

“Kíli spilled a bowl of stew on a manuscript he was supposed to study.”

“Didn’t think you took lessons with the lads.”

“I didn’t. I was three rooms down the hall.”

And there was that laugh again.

Dwalin was a lot less intimidating when he was laughing like that. No, that wasn’t true. He was still Dwalin. So he was still intimidating. He could still pick one of them up and use them as a club if he wanted. He could still face down an army for his king. Ori had seen him in Goblintown, there was going to be no need to exaggerate in the chronicle about how much Dwalin did to get them to the Lonely Mountain.

“Sup’ll be done soon enough once they manage to find enough wood that’s not soaked through or rotten.”

“Yes.”

Oh wonderful, they were back to these strange stilted conversations that they had. When they spoke. When they didn’t just ride next to each other and quite obviously not talk except for what Ori was convinced were either accidental insults or a very rude litany of all of his faults.

Not tonight.

Ori had had a fairly good day, and wasn’t going to let Dwalin stammer his way into an insult again.

“If this is about your hammer, don’t bother asking. I told you, I’m keeping it.”

He said it with finality and looked away, noticing Dori’s cautious frown, and the fact that the boys had scared Frey even further off from the group as they tried to talk to her.

“That’s that then? I don’t get a vote on it?”

“Well, no. You lost it, and I found it, and I like it rather a lot. Feels good in the hand, and it’s much more powerful than anything I’ve had before.” His intention had been to sincerely compliment the weapon. Dwalin really was quite proud of it. Weaponry seemed to be the only thing they could speak about without stammering. Ori didn’t really hear what he said until Dwalin started turning pink and looking with great focus at the dirt in his knuckle dusters.

He could almost hear Nori snickering in his mind.

Oh damn. Blast. Damn. That wasn’t how that was supposed to have gone.

That just made him sound far more forward that he would ever have the courage to be.

He was still worrying at his mistake when Dwalin cleared his throat.

“Well, if you’re so set on keeping it, one of these days we’ll have a go so I can see if you know how to use it proper.”

Then the pink on his cheeks deepened and the grizzled warrior walked to the opposite side of camp to set next to his brother and face into the trees around them.

So sure that he had made some further error, it took him a few minutes to hear it.

The gloom of Mirkwood had one advantage. No one noticed as he hid his face in his notes.

 

***

 

The next day was spent much as the first. Marching forward, trying to remember any detail that seemed important, trying to get Freya to walk beside him so he could list more words for her, and test what she remembered. It went poorly the second day. He started by reviewing and she was so distracted she got almost everything wrong.

Ori must have taught her too many words at once. Unless confusing trees and feet was a normal problem. He doubted that.

Fíli and Kíli had actually had the nerve to whine at him when she managed to escape him for the third time. Quite a lot of nerve that, considering that the pair of them sent her flitting off every time they approached. But the princes had never had a good sense of disproportionate reactions.

Once he managed to get away from the pair, still grousing that Ori should have tried harder, he was greeted by Dwalin bringing him a bowl of stew.

It wasn't very good.

Nothing tasted good in Mirkwood. The same dried fruit that had been flavorful and bright as they rode to the forest tasted like leather under the trees.

“Thank you.”

“Tastes awful.”

Ori waited a moment to see if further would be said. When it didn’t, he filled the space, “Yes, Mister Beorn did tell us that the forest is under some kind of affliction. I don’t know what it does, but I’m sure you have felt it. Everything is… well the word I keep using in my notes is that it feels  grey here. I know that it isn’t. There is plenty of color, and I wrote about that as well. But it does feel grey doesn’t it? And I think that’s why the food tastes like this. If grey had a taste, this is what I imagine it would be like. Not that colors have tastes. That would just be preposterous. All the same, there is something affecting everything in this forest, and I do wish I knew what it was.”

A side effect of being a scribe was that he could be a bit garrulous. It wasn’t his fault that the puzzle of this forest and its strange smells and it’s strange sensation was both important to the chronicle and absolutely stumping him. Ori was interested.

By the way that Dwalin was frozen with his spoon midway to his mouth, Ori was the only one who was interested.

“Yes, well, I’ll just let you eat then.”

Ori walked to Nori and sat down, never minding that his brother was hissing insults at Bofur.

That hadn’t gone quite right.

Next time he had a chance to talk to Dwalin he needed to sound less like a babbling dwarfing and more like a practiced scholar. He’d have hoped to sound like a warrior, but Ori knew when something was hopeless.

Not that he had another chance to talk to Dwalin for a few days.

As they moved deeper into the woods, there was a growing sense that they were being watched. It put all of them on edge, and Dwalin, as Thorin’s chief guard, spent most of the day and night at his side. He seemed a bit uncomfortable there, not that Ori spent the days watching him or anything like that. Ori supposed it was because of whatever Bilbo and Thorin were whispering to each other that Dwalin kept looking over his shoulder.

He spent most of his time just remembering how to walk, and had to abandon his efforts to teach Freya words as they travelled.

She would tolerate a few, but hardly more than that during lunch, and in the evening, she recited everything she could remember.

Ori didn’t stop pestering her until she listed them all, so by the fourth day of the routine, she began as soon as he approached.

“Foot. Boot. Leg. Belt. Bag. Fasl. Khark. Shirt. Finger.” She finished. She had a patently false innocence painted on her face.

Ori squeaked at her, and was hardly the only one. It was a small camp, and most of the others heard her nightly recitation. Nori and Dwalin started giggling.

Thorin’s reaction wasn’t so cheery. Ori had the misfortune of making eye contact with the king and saw the way he was scowling. Bilbo caught his arm and pulled him away from the others.

They started on yet another argument. Quite an angry one in fact. No. Bilbo was angry. Thorin was perfectly calm.

Ori turned back to Freya, hoping she recalled the words for questions because he most certainly wanted to know if his brother was responsible for this.

She was already gone.

She was back to the edge of camp, dropping the packs from her back, and leaving the ones on her legs as she tucked against a log.

“She doesn’t trust us.” Fíli groused.

“Why would she?” Ori had heard enough of the whining on this subject in the last few days. They apparently believed that she should have happily believed everything they told her the moment they started speaking to her. As if the months before had never happened. “How long did it take her to gain our trust, months? And she had to — she went through Goblintown and then ran straight at Azog! And then helped Thorin, who tried to kill her! And! She still doesn’t have it, Fíli. The Compnay doesn’t trust her. You don’t trust her. If we trusted her she might trust us, but all you’ve done is bother her all the time. Can’t you see she isn’t well?”

Chastened, Fíli fiddled with his mustache. “I trust her.” It was low but vehement.  

Ori snorted. “So why do you still have her weapon on your belt?”

“She won’t let me talk to her.”

“So why don’t you just set it with her things one night when you’re on watch?” Fíli didn’t answer, though he did his best impersonation of his uncle’s scowl.

“I don’t think it would be wise for her to wake with a weapon.”

“I told you. You don’t trust her.” Ori was done with the roundabout conversation.

“Ori, I do, she is a part of the Company now, she needs to understand that, and you’re the only one who she seems to speak to. You have to convince her she’s one of us. Then she might tell us what is happening and why she spends her nights—”

“What do you want me to do? I can’t make her trust us.”

“You were right, about her hammer. Give it back to her. She won’t think you’re attacking her. Just take it over and give it back.” Fíli brought out the hammer and tried to press it into Ori’s hands. Which seemed like a terrible idea to Ori.

“Don’t.”

Ori’s eyes nearly fell out of his head at the rumble of Thorin’s voice beside him. Thorin stepped closer and there was no longer a way for him to escape, caught between two bristling dwarves who seemed intent on having an argument over the top of his head.  This had to be just about the worst place he could be standing in the entire camp. But when he turned to his brothers for aid, they were too busy watching the silent battle happening between the king and his heir.

“Ingadan, she is travelling with us as we agreed, but she is not a member of the company. I do not want her armed.” His voice wasn’t angry, but it was immovable.

“She is travelling with us, that makes her a member of the Company. Can we really afford not to have every available hand for defense?”

“Defense against what? We haven’t seen something larger than a squirrel in days. None of us are going to attack her. The only result of giving her a weapon would be to allow her to cause us harm.”

“Any of us could bring her down if she were to try. Ori could defeat her — Bilbo could defeat her!” Bilbo shouted an objection. Ori just tried to not be noticed. “She’s hardly any good with it. It’s not a risk.”

“Then there is no purpose in giving it to her.”

Oddly, it was Fíli who was getting frustrated. He rarely did, and in the face of Thorin’s calm it was only more obvious.

“She deserves to be able to defend herself. We have not seen anything, but we were warned of the dangers of this place!”

“And one of those warnings was that the forest would attempt to lead us astray, show us things that are not there. That it would deceive us. Given her temperament I would prefer to avoid her being armed in such a situation.”

“But what about everything else?”

“If we are attacked by the squirrels?”

Ori was fairly sure that was a joke, but wasn’t about to look up at the king to confirm it. Fíli tightened his fists. Ori watched and shrank down, trying to be even less noticeable. Not that he thought this would escalate like that. Not between the line of Durin. But he had to admit that the forest had caused some very strange mood swings in them all.

“If we are attacked, she would have no defense.”

“If we are attacked, she is within the protection of the group, so she will not be at risk. As you have said, she is not skilled with a weapon. Arming her serves no purpose.”

“With Gandalf’s departure we are only fifteen!”

“Fourteen.”

“Fifteen, uzbad.”

“Fourteen, rayad.”

Ori winced and looked across the bit of clearing. Freya was watching, and Ori regretted what they had learned today.

She knew how to count to twenty. She’d been quite interested in the number fourteen.

She looked like she was chewing on a lemon.

“Uncle, this forest is cursed,” Fíli began again, impassioned, “It is not safe. You have warned us all time and again to be on our guard. If she is included in our party, if she is—“

“Fíli!”

Her sharp voice turned every head. She looked between the two for a moment. “ _AsmuchasIhateadmittingthatprickisright_. _Heisright_. Fourteen, Fíli. _Imnotpartofthecompany_.”

Then she walked back to where she usually did and sat.

Ori had been quite right.

Mirkwood was not a pleasant place.

* * *

 

Given his preference Thorin would have been glad to see every last tree in the blasted forest hacked down and used as kindling for the great forges. Coal would burn better, but the temptation of burning the whole of the forest into tiny embers and ash was particularly tempting. He could have the ash made into soap and he could scrub his royal arse with it.

They had been here for a week. No. Ten days. Nine days? He thought so. It may have been longer.

He would need to ask Ori to confirm it. Their scribe at least seemed able to keep track of the passage of time thanks to his book of notes.

Their packs were lightening. Even knowing that he ought to worry over that implication, he could not stop being grateful that the straps dug in less, and that, beside him, Bilbo was flinching less as he walked.

Thorin had already transferred a quantity of the weight from Bilbo’s bag to his own. In small increments so that it wouldn’t be noticed, of course.

The Company was fractious and snarling at each other as they walked.

Some days were worse than others. Some hours were especially terrible. Some days Thorin almost couldn't tell that Bilbo walked beside him. His hobbit would say nothing for an entire day’s walk, and would simply stare at the ground and the canopy of sickly leaves above them.

Then there were days when they all laughed and joked and while they never managed to break into song, they were happy through the march. Their packs felt lighter on those days.

They walked faster. They were happier. The air was less foul and they could think more clearly.

This had been one of those days.

It was fortunate. Otherwise they may have broken into a fight.

When they all slowed to a stop, spreading out over the area, his company was all staring at the same thing. A broken bridge they could not cross. Beorn had told them of the dangers of the forest before their departure. He had told them of the confusion that suffused the air. He had told them that there were toxic plants. He had told them that the first major water they crossed was poisoned, and the could not so much as touch it.

Then the shapeshifter had informed them that there was, luckily, a bridge over it.

Or, as it turned out, a broken bridge.

“Alright, what do we do now?” Bilbo chirped.

“We must find a way to cross it.”

“Very nice. Well spotted, Thorin. Is this the one that Beorn spoke of? The river of sleep?”

“We must assume so.”

“Right, then swimming through it is out. Which is good, since I can’t swim.”

Thorin turned from their newest problem to stare, “You cannot swim?”

“Hobbits don’t swim Thorin. It’s hardly just me.”

“You need to learn.”

He looked stricken over the suggestion. “Perhaps one day. But not in this. Though I do fancy a nap. If only I could have something to tire me out first.” It really was a good day if Bilbo was teasing him.

Cheeky hobbit.

“I do believe between the two of us it is you and not I who would object to the lack of privacy. Or have I misjudged that?” The pair was away from the others, standing atop the former bridge. No one would hear their conversation, though they might have noticed current Bilbo’s slack jaw sputters of outrage.  

“Th— Thorin, you wouldn’t dare.”

“Dare what?”

Bilbo frowned, no, pouted, and Thorin badly wanted to kiss the bothersome creature. But he really would object to being so public about it all. Besides, so long as they didn’t acknowledge the bond, they didn’t have to be subjected to the Company’s commentary. Thorin was willing to bend tradition and propriety, and keep his hands to himself for the sake of that peace.

But still, as his hobbit tried to intimidate him, he very much wanted to kiss him into oblivion.

“Uncle Thorin! We think we can see a boat!”

He spun, startled, to see his younger nephew pointing across the river.

However, he could see nothing through the gloom. Bilbo took another step forward on the bridge and began to nod.

“Yes, I do believe that is a boat. Fíli, are you still carrying that rope?”

In short order they had a hook and rope together, and Nori was elected to throw it across by Dwalin.  He missed twice, the hook catching on nothing as it was pulled back toward them. All of them looked askance at the wet line, but there was no choice except to hope that a small amount of water would not be enough to harm them. Bilbo ran over to point more clearly, and on the third throw, they all cheered at the sound.

The craft was too small to carry them all, and shoddily built. It had to serve though.

They decided to cross in small groups, leaving Bombur’s disproportionate bulk to the last, riding with Bilbo. Before climbing into the boat with Nori, Bofur and Dwalin, Freya hurried to Kíli.

“Kíli, _waitasecond. Imnotsurewhatshappeningbecausethisisbookcanon. AndIneverlikedthispart. Therehasntbeenmuchoftit. Butthisisdefinitelybookcanon. Becausewellboat. AndIdontknowifwereonschedule. ButIthinktheresgoingtobeadeer. AndIdontwanttocarry_ Bombur. _Loveya_ Bombur, _buthellnotothat_. Kíli. Arrow and bow. Eyes for….food? squirrel? Ori _youhaventtaughtmethisword_. _Wehaventseenany_. _AndIdontknowwhatsoundtheymake_. _Likeatall_.”

Ori and Bilbo both joined her.

She was too serious for Thorin to stop them. She just seemed utterly sincere as she tried to get Kíli to do something for her. His brilliant hobbit watched her flailing for a moment, and said decisively, “There’s going to be an elk. Kíli, keep your bow out. Maybe we can have a proper meal.”

Satisfied as soon as Kíli had half nocked an arrow, Freya climbed into the craft without complaint.

It went smoothly.

That was surprising considering the luck that they had possessed so far in their journey, but Thorin was not going to contest successfully crossing a magical river without mishap. Bilbo was smirking at him from the boat as they pulled it nearer. Bombur sat somewhat grumpily behind him.

They were the last, and then they could continue. The sooner the better.

The forest was getting worse by the day.

There had been more arguments. More sniping and backtalk. He was confident that it was not a matter of true insubordination, but of this thrice accursed, elf-plagued forest. They would walk longer each day, he decided, and try to be free of it within another week.

Thorin turned to the sound of approaching hooves, as did almost every other person on the bank.

Freya spun the other way, running toward the bank and shouting, “Bombur, down! _Fuckssakeduckyouidiot_! Down!”

It was Bilbo that flung an arm over Bombur’s shoulder and pulled him down. The stag burst through them all, and made to leap to the bridge.

It crashed back down before it began, an arrow buried in its neck.

There was a moment of perfect stillness as every eye travelled from their newly found dinner, to Kíli, then to Freya. Then a cheer rose for Kíli, and the meat they would get to have that night and in the morning. Thorin and Dwalin resumed hauling on the rope to bring over their last two companions.

“Frey.” Thorin heard Ori’s eagerness, and was begrudgingly grateful that he would not have to ask himself, “You saw that, yes?” He was speaking deliberately, and though Thorin did not turn, he knew that the dwarf was miming to help her understand.

“No. That no.”

“But you told us about it. Well, we thought you said it was an elk, but I think that’s close enough! That was incredible! You know things that small? You know about the little things, not just the big ones? But why were you yelling at Bombur? What did you think would happen? We have to teach you faster. There’s so much you need to tell us!”

“No. Ori. I eyes… _shitthisisweird. Iwasntthinking. Idontknowwhatshappening. Ihatenotknowing._ Ori. I eyes—“

“Saw.”

“Saw?”

“Saw.”

“I saw? Bombur water. Bombur and water. Sleep. _YouhavenoideahowmuchIhatethisbytheway. Ichangedit. Ijustdidntwanttocarryhim. Butnowthingswillbedifferent. Whichmakesmeuseless_.”

“Are you alright?”

“ _Differentisbad_ Ori! _Everytimeitsdifferent? Itsworse._ Mirkwood _isalreadyawful. Thisisgoingtojustbeshittasticallyawfulnow._ ” She was getting shrill and she raised her voice.

Bilbo climbed out of the boat and bypassed Thorin to stand directly in front of Freya. “Young lady,” He began in a tone that Thorin knew meant his hobbit had made a decision and would not be swayed, “You are going to to sit with myself and Ori from now on whenever at all possible and we are going to try to teach you enough language that you can actually be of use, and I don’t want to hear a word about it. Or from you Thorin! Actually, Thorin? Are we going to wait while we butcher the deer or carry it with us?”

He glanced over. The company had already begun.

Bilbo saw it as well and nodded.

He caught Ori and Freya by the wrists and hauled them away from the water, already muttering quickly with the scribe to establish what she knew best.

Bilbo had clearly reached the same conclusion as Ori and Thorin, and anyone else who had been paying attention. She knew far more than broad events and names.

By the time the Company was done done and there was meat wrapped in clean cloths to cook that night, Bilbo was frustrated and rubbing at a headache.

Dinner was merry that night. The company was livelier than they had been in a week, and even the air seemed brighter. Then full dark fell, and the smoke from the fire faded without meat cooking above it. All that was left was a clean glow of light.

Thorin had never seen so many bugs and moths and beetles as were in the air then. Everyone pulled cloaks over their mouths to avoid eating them, and batted at them over and over.

Eventually the effort was greater than the heat of the fire. They banked it down to nothing, ridding themselves of the flutter of wings in their faces, and leaving them in an oppressive dark for the first time. None of them liked it. The dark was more dangerous. Those on watch could do little but listen to the constant hum of forest sounds.

There was one advantage.

Bilbo shifted closer with his bedroll until he was nuzzled against Thorin’s side. In the dark a tender kiss found his lips, and he drifted into sleep more content than he had thought possible amidst the miring torture of Mirkwood.

 

***

The next night was the same, too many bugs for them to maintain the fire, and as Thorin began to sleep, he would have sworn he saw eyes watching them from between the trees.

In the morning he dismissed it as a trick of sleep.

It was hard to think of danger and despair with a hobbit curled by him. Thorin woke before the dawn, and would gently shift Bilbo aside to a distance that would not necessitate him admitting the bond publicly. Theirs was a strange and inappropriate courtship, if this was a courtship at all, and not merely a dalliance, but Thorin did not want to endanger it by letting the Company get their teeth into it.

The next day they passed over some unseen line of demarcation into a truly loathsome area of the forest. The air was heavy and rank. The ground beneath them was treacherous. All of them found themselves stumbling, tripping, confused and snappish. Thorin followed Dwalin and Balin, who moved ever slower as the path tried to evade their sight.

It was a marvel they kept walking. Sometimes one or another of them would just stop and stare into the distance.

Freya would stop and stare at Bilbo. Always at Bilbo.

There was a corner of himself that celebrated not returning her weapon, that still thought she might be dangerous. That still thought that she might somehow, against all reason and order, have been the same as the stranger from Azanulbizar.

But it was a quiet voice. Easily shaken aside by basic reason.

Even if it was true, there was no one near. Not elves or orcs or life at all. After seeing the deer, they had seen almost nothing. Save bugs. There was no one about to betray them to, and Fíli was correct that any one of them could defeat her if necessary.

So they walked ever onwards, slowly drowning in a thick soup of bewilderment and mood swings.

It was nearly dusk when he heard a clicking above him.

The easy answer was to blame a bird.

However, they hadn’t seen a bird in almost two weeks.

They were going to stop at the next clearing of any kind that they encountered, unnaturally weary as they were. He had ordered that. He had looked them over. Counted to fourteen and decided that they needed to stop as soon as they could.

Thorin looked to Bilbo where he walked beside Freya. His hobbit’s continuous prattle of words and questions for her had been intermittent today. They had made little progress from what he overheard. She had barely replied at all, spent most of the day lost in thought, staring at the hobbit with a furrowed brow and an intermittent twitch in her hand. The rest she spent watching the treetops above them.

Bilbo was slumped as he walked, exhausted and massaging a headache usually after he had spent a few hours walking beside her on a good day.

This had not been a good day. He was particularly exhausted and distracted.

The clicking got louder, closer.

The company continued to walk as Thorin waited, listening. He was at the tail of the group before long, having waved off everyone that paused to offer help or ask a question.

And the clicking grew louder. It was nebulously familiar. But the answer to the mystery was not forthcoming. he saw the company continue ahead. He watched them walk, struggling on ground he knew was passable but could not seem to traverse. They were spread out far, a long thin line across the forest that, in the dying light, he could not see the front of.

He shook his head and growled, heaving in a deep breath before he surveyed the area again.

He could see nothing, but his head was mercifully clearer now than it had been a moment before. Not enough to process what he was hearing though. The click click click sounded louder now, more menacing. But still the answer of what it was drifted out of his reach.

Thorin forced his feet to move, forced himself to walk, and was nearly back to the others, almost to the rear of the line when the sound of a branches shifting made him freeze once more.

There was no more warning than that before two huge spiders fell upon them.

The were enormous and furious.

Dazed, bleary, the company replied slower than they should have. It took a second or two for most of them to recognize what they were seeing. It took precious seconds more before weapons were drawn. And they were spread thinly apart from each other.

Lives were saved by the hissing and spitting that the spiders did.

One was advancing on Dwalin near the front. A massive foul creature that continued to click as it bobbed and looked for an opening. The warrior, long trained and very talented, was trying to pull an axe from his back. His closest aid was Ori, who was still only half trained.

The other was advancing on Bilbo.

He was smaller than the rest of them, and Thorin knew the thing saw him as an easy meal. In a burst that was almost painful, the last haze cleared from his mind under the onslaught of panic and battle rage.

Thorin ran, feet moving surely, and he could feel the revived focus of the others as he tried to reach his hobbit. In that moment he did not consider the lass that had been beside him at all. There was a spider as large as a warg bearing down on Bilbo, and nothing would prevent him killing it. He could not see Bilbo behind its body, and had no way of knowing if Bilbo had even managed to defend himself.

Guilt and fear and the memory of too many deaths was slamming into him as he ran.

When he got there he found Freya standing with her arm outstretched, a branch in her other hand, bashing the spider in the face to keep it back. Bilbo was behind her, fumbling with his sword, trying to draw it and help.

Thorin killed the thing in a single thrust at the same time he heard the wet squelch of a crushed body. Orcrist still pinning the spider down, he glanced up and saw Ori, of all the company, Ori, with a confident smile, and the handle of a war hammer in his hand.

The head of it was buried in a pile of goo and broken flesh that had been the spider attacking Dwalin.

He left orcrist where it was and pulled Bilbo into an embrace, too concerned to care that the Company would take it as a declaration. Smaller hands clung to his clothes and Bilbo was panting as if he had been fighting and not grappling with the hilt of a blade while protected by an unarmed crazed lass. The sight of her there had thrown Thorin of his track. He didn’t know how to reconcile her actions with his judgement of her.  It had to wait to be examined.

Bilbo shivered against him. Not caring, not thinking, he ducked his head down and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s hair, pulled back, looked him over for injuries, and finding none, crushed him once more in an embrace.

He looked up as he heard laughter rising behind him.

But it was not directed at them.

His sister sons were standing beside Freya; Nori and Dwalin and Ori were just behind them. She was pointing furiously at the spider, then poking Kíli in the chest, then pointing back to the spider.

Everyone but Kíli was was wiping tears from their eyes. Now that Thorin was thinking about something beyond the body clasped against his, he realized that Frey was yelling. Excessively.

She hadn’t done that in a while.

“ _WhatdidItellyou_ Kíli? _WhatdidItellyou? Ifuckingtoldyou! Itoldyou! Iwarnedyou!GiantFuckingSpiders! Butnooooo. Youwereajerkaboutit! Youmadefunofme! Howdoyoufeelnowbastard!? Gigantic. Fuckall. Spiders. Lookat_ Thorin _and_ Bilbo! _Allfuckingterrifiedofthespiders_!”

Kíli made a halfhearted placating gesture and she shouted wordlessly. Then she recalled that they didn’t speak whatever tongue she did.

“Beorns? Spiders? Hahaha? No. No! Spiders! Big Spiders. No _shitIforgottheword_. No not big spiders. Mirkwood is Big Spiders! _Anddidyoulistentome_? _Noofcoursenot_! No! _Becauseyouneverlistentomeandyouretotallygonnadie! Wait. Shit._ ”

She stopped her tirade abruptly with Kíli looking a bit pink and hiding in his hands as his brother cackled beside him.

“ _Waitnoshit. Sweetmotherof… Well…well. Smokeemifyouvegotemfolks. Werefuckedpeople. Thatswhatweare. Fuckedeightwaystosunday. Thatsus. Becausethisiswrong_.” She spun in a circle looking up the trunks of trees and trying to see into foliage. The majority of the company was standing on the fringes, keeping watch against further attacks by the creatures. There had been nothing else. No sound save leaves in a breeze that did not reach them below the canopy, and a faint buzz.

“ _Therearentsupposedtobespidersyet. Somethingisdifferent. Differentisbad. Soentirelyfucked_.

On the outskirts of his mind, Thorin could almost see the fog of confusion encroaching once more. He shook his head again to keep it at bay. He would not let it reclaim his mind. Not when he needed to keep his Company safe. Bilbo still had his face pressed into the gap between his furs.

And Thorin would much prefer to focus on Bilbo than on her meaningless ranting display.

“I don’t think I like this forest.” He muttered into Thorin’s tunic. Thorin kissed his hair again.

“I have never liked any forest, so I may not be the best judge to help you determine its quality.”

“How much further?”

Thorin wished he knew that himself. He tried to think of how long they had been there, and how long it should take to cross the blasted thing. But when he did start thinking, when he stopped pushing away the haze with both hands, it began to return.

“I do not know.” He finally answered.

“But we’ll get through this.” how he managed to make the sentence both a question and an order was beyond Thorin’s understanding. Though, he understood the doubt in it.

“Of course. Dwarves are entirely too proud to die in a forest like some elf.”

“You know, maybe if you were nicer to the forest it would be nicer to us.”

“I suspect you are teasing me, burglar.”

“Me? Tease you? That’s outrageous. That’s slanderous. I would never. How dare you Thorin Oakenshield? Tease you? Bah.”

Still hidden in the furs, Thorin had to settle for feeling the cheeky grin rather than seeing it.

Glóin clearing his throat was enough to remind Thorin of the others. Most were still watching the trees, but only with half an eye. He was wrapped around Bilbo, and the hobbit was clinging to him too tightly to be dislodged.

“Ah, So… Anything to say Thorin?”

“Yes,” he said formally, quite ready to be done with the charade if it meant he did not have to let go. But Bilbo shook his head urgently. So Thorin changed intention and killed the words that were on his tongue, “There may be more of these creatures around, we will continue walking as long as there is light, to put as much distance as possible between us as we can.”

“ _Itdoesntmatterwhathesaidguys. Weresoveryveryfucked. Justgrabyouranklesnow._ ”

They groaned in disappointment, but set about following the command.

When they looked away, he tried again to pull Bilbo away from his chest.

“You know that this is all I wanted that night with the Stone Giants,” Bilbo said at last, pulling back and smiling at him. “I wanted to just hide in your fur until I recalled how to be brave. See how much better this is? All I needed. Now we can go on.”

Bilbo grinned encouragingly. He really did seem to be past the fear that had paralyzed him.

Thorin glanced over his shoulder before ducking to kiss Bilbo properly.

“ _Mmmph_ — None of that. Not, _hrmm_. Not where they can see. Besides we do need to get walking again, I don't fancy meeting anymore of those— Fíli?” Bilbo dropped his affectionate tone like he was scalded.

“Thorin.”

His face fell as fast as Bilbo’s did.

Fili’s voice was serious, formal, and laced with a mix of horror and panic.

“We’ve lost the path.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SofA is part of my Nano event, which is how I wrote this so fast. We'll see whether I continue to write obscene amounts every day. But I thought you'd like this now.
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Ingadan : Near Son  
> Uzbad : King  
> Rayad : Heir


	16. Unpleasant Decisions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which obvious things are finally acknowledged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All glory to [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) most marvelous of betas.

Fili was smiling at her, and it just wasn't fair. He had saved her life, he had yelled at Thorin, he had told her she was pretty, and now he was smiling.

Not fair.

Then he winked.

Very not fair.

Now, if only they weren't lost in the middle of Mirkwood and going to die horribly she could do something about this whole winking business.

That would make things much easier for what she had decided needed to be the new plan. Clearly no good came of her changing events, so she needed to just lock up all the dwarves somewhere safe and hope that Bard did the thing. The boys obviously had no plan.

But the smiling.

Not fair.

He was all pretty and the forest was all... not.

Not at all.

They were lost. There were spiders. Early. Plus. The little bastards kept climbing into her shirt, and that was just about the worst thing she could think of. She smashed two more into the very pretty lacy cups of her very pretty lacy bra, and glared at the fire attracting all the damnable bugs.

Couldn't even pour water on it and kill the thing since she knew they were running out of water fast. And the only other thing she had was a handle of vodka. Terrible idea that.

Stupid forest.

Her bra was itchy. Probably all the dead spiders she'd smooshed into it. Easily solved. Off it went.

Oh, and there was that smile again.

Shit.

She threw her coat at him as well. It couldn't possibly make her life any worse than it currently was. Evil forest. Hunted by spiders. Thorin all grumpy. Though, to be perfectly fair, he was almost always grumpy.

Fili followed her, because fanon _and_ canon were wrong about dwarves and their permanent residence on the ace spectrum and Fili knew what was what. Thank god. Or Mahal. Or PJ. Whoever. She hid behind a tree, and waited. It didn't take him long to chase her down and press her into a tree. Then it was just tongues and lips and teeth and bodies smashed together and entirely too many clothes in the way.

They did have to pause to smoosh a few more spiders.

Bastards.

No big deal, they were getting good at it.

Everything was lovely, and there wasn't much more she could ask for, except, maybe a bed, and fewer clothes. Actually. Definitely fewer clothes, because she was pretty sure that there were tattoos and she very much wanted to see them. She deserved to see them. And Tattoos deserved to be seen.

Pretty indigo ink and lovely stark lines drawing attention in and down? Yes. Very much deserving of attention. Which she was happy to give.

The piercing panicked scream from back at camp wasn't enough to stop them. Nor was the sound of an orc horn in the air.  

Watching an arrow sprout from his neck did the trick though. But only because choking on his own blood meant he had stopped the excellent make out session.

She frowned at him as he bled out on her shirt, slowly sliding to the ground and clawing at the shaft. That was annoying. She was going to have to wash her clothes. And she was out of soap.

And it had spoiled the chance of sex.

"Rude, Fili."

He gurgled non-committally.

She stripped the clothes into the sink and ran the tap, listing all the various ways that he had just inconvenienced her while he twitched on the carpet. Fortunately, she’d already had her bra off. She liked that bra--not that she knew where it was now. Silver lace and blue ribbons and fancy strapping. Behind Fili, around him, one by one, the rest of the company collapsed from wounds she could not predict. Dwalin lost his head. Thorin killed Bilbo. Ori was crushed. Some of the others just fell sideways, bleeding for no reason at all. Like something out of a horror movie or the X-Files.

She just whined and bitched as she scrubbed the blood out of her shirt, knowing and not caring that it had all been her fault.

A band of gold fell out of the pocket as she scrubbed, and she caught it before it went down the drain.

It really was pretty.

Probably prettier than her. But hopefully Fili wouldn’t think so.

Except he was dead. So it really didn’t matter.

On went the ring and she admired her hand.

It would be better if she could show it off though. And for that she needed the dwarves back.

Easy enough. She had the ring. The ring could do anything. She only had to ask and maybe pay back a favor or two one day. Easy.

Time to pull a Piemaker.

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen.

Right.

Hobbit.

Fourteen.

But Bilbo might want the ring back. Hmm.

No Hobbit.

Bye again Bilbo. Thorin would just have to make hearteyes at someone else. Maybe Dwalin. Maybe Bofur. Maybe both.

They were all discussing how pretty the ring was when the orcs came back out of the trees with wargs and spiders at their backs.

They stabbed her first, but she lasted long enough to glare as the others fell down once more.

***

Waking up from a dream like that was a bitch.

She was on her feet in the middle of the night, probably scaring the living hell out of whoever was on watch, climbing over and through the camp, counting dwarves. Frey was pretty sure she ate at least a few bugs before she managed to count to fourteen. Bilbo was half hidden by Thorin, and she didn't need that kind of stress. Not right now. They needed to start sleeping in obvious, clear, individual shapes so there wouldn’t be any of this trouble with thinking that someone had gone missing.

Bofur and Thorin were judging her where they sat on watch. She could feel them both staring.

Didn't matter.

Fourteen. Excellent number.

Then, having realized that they hadn't all just been slaughtered by orcs or magic invisible attackers, or crushed by trolls, that she hadn't just been making out with Fili, and that neither Galadriel nor Gandalf was around, she began to hyperventilate. Because there were nightmares, and then there were dreams like that. They were quintessentially different. They felt like she was living them, and she really thought she had been done with them after the wizard had decided to knock her unconscious and fuck off to deal with Sauron’s alter ego.

She was supposed to be done with them. Frey had fixed it by getting Gandalf gone. She had only had other weird dreams in the last few weeks because of hormones. Also because of the psychedelic forest.

The forest was bad enough. She had ruined more than enough things while they were underneath the trees. She didn't need to have wacky magic dreams as well.

It wasn't as if this was the first time she had woken up like this. She didn't always remember it so clearly, but then, whoever was on watch would usually come over and kick her if she was making noise. Waking up mid dream seemed to mean she lost the thread of it for some reason.

But, well. Neither Thorin nor Bofur gave a damn if she was having a rough night’s sleep.

Didn't matter.

The dreams were getting worse, that was what mattered.

The dreams were getting worse. And a lot less subtle.

Her feet must have decided that she needed to get the hell and gone away from the others, because by the time she had calmed herself down enough to actually think, the fire was a distant glow, providing just enough light she could see that there were tree trunks between her and it.

"This is bad." Frey whispered, "First off just watched the boys die, just watched all of them die. Didn't even try to stop it. That's not a great sign. Second, I shouldn’t be fucking having dreams at all. Not those kind of dreams. Gandalf left. Third. Bad decisions happened.”

Maybe it was just a really spectacularly bad normal nightmare?

And maybe tomorrow morning Thorin would give her a big damn hug.

Right.

No.

Nope.

"Fuck. Cock. Balls. Shit." Frey kicked the tree next to her hard enough she may have finally dented the steel toe in her boot.

Frey wasn’t as idiotic as everyone believed. All evidence to the contrary put aside, she did have a brain, and used it when possible. She just, well, hadn’t lately. Now that she was actually thinking with a half clear head, instead of the circuitous rambling her brain did when she had previously tried to explain away the resurgence in her creepy-ass dreams, she could see the answer.

There was only one answer after all.

One terrible horrible answer.

A single terrible horrible awful entirely obvious now that she thought about it answer.

The Ring.

She kicked the tree again.

Definitely dented her shoe that time. And she didn't stop kicking as she ranted.

"It's gotta be the ring. No wonder Gandalf was so fucking confused when I was bitching at him, it wasn't him! It was the fucking ring, sitting in my fucking pocket. I am an idiot." She picked up a stick and smashed it into the tree. It shattered and she bent over for another one. “I didn’t even wear the damned thing! I just—I touched it, that’s all. I picked it up and I put in my damn pocket because Bilbo dropped the damn thing and I couldn’t just let the orcs snatch it up and ughhhhhhhh. Right, right, blithering hell. Fine. So, apparently, I’m of the race of men. Apparently, I mean, I must be, despite being dwarf sized. Me, Isilidur and Boromir can just have a club. There’ll be tee shirts. ‘Corrupted by the ring.’ And on the back ‘It was super easy.’ Shit. Fuck. Shit. This is so very bad.

“Buggery fuck. Just. Shit. Oh-- Oh crap, I’ve been using it in my dreams, does that count? I don’t know. I wanted them to not be dead. That’s normal. But then I killed Bilbo. Less normal. Fuck. Shit. Do the dreams count? Gahhhhh. Fuck fuck fuck frickety fuckity frick fracking fuck. This really couldn’t be any worse.”

There wasn’t anything for it though. Not really.

If it wasn’t for the forest, and the elves, and the spiders, and the dragon, and the goddamn army, and the singular importance of saving the lives of the damn dumbass Durins, she would just go. She would just walk away and head for Lorien or Rivendell, whichever was further from the ring, and hope that if she talked long enough, and shoved enough images at people, they'd come up to speed.

Then it could be their problem.

Except she was stuck in the middle of Mirkwood. “God. Damn. It. Everything. Just. Buggery fuck.”

Frey couldn’t leave the idiots without warning them about everything else that was going to try to kill them. After all, that list was fairly extensive.

Of course, they’d believe it now. Wasn’t that just great? Ever since the deer and the spiders, they had been talking to her like she walked on air, like she knew every detail of what was to come. If she got asked one more time if there was going to another deer coming through, she might have to punch someone. She didn’t care if they were hungry. She was too. She couldn’t predict the movements of the local fauna.  She was still shocked she had predicted the one.

She slapped the tree with what was left of the branch. They thought she knew every miniscule detail.

Frey knew nothing anymore. Well. No. Dragon and Goldlust and an Army. Those were all still probably going to happen. Azog was a determined jackass. Unless goldlust could be remedied via blowjob, that would happen too. Everything smaller than that was a wash.

And Mirkwood was just getting worse and worse.

She had caught herself staring at Bilbo. Over and over in the last few days she had realized she was gawping at him. That had been weird enough, but now knowing that it hadn’t been his pretty face she was looking at?

She hit the tree again.

Soon as she could, she needed to get away from them. She had to. No ifs, ands, or buts. Ringlust wasn’t something to tempt. Boromir taught her that.

But then she wouldn’t be there to protect them.

“Ughhhhhhhhh.”

She wouldn’t be there to keep them safe. She would have to abandon them to their fate, and it might revert back to canon and that was unacceptable.

Actually.

Neither option was acceptable.

Boromir was an upright and honorable citizen and he still tried to kill Frodo. She wasn't about to pretend she was honorable. She probably would kill Bilbo, snag the ring and run off to make a date with the Dark Lord. Or just sell them all out to Azog for a steak and a smoothie.

Her and Isildur were a matched set of useless.

If she left, she needed to get the rest of it through to them before she did. Which would be easier if Gandalf was still around to dig through her skull. Maybe the elves? Except Thorin and elves were a terrible combo plate. Yes, sure, the dwarves had taught her a bit more language. Yes, fine, she actually understood things they said from time to time. It wasn’t going to be enough for her to explain the clusterfuck of a time they were about to have to slog through.

She would just have to try. Try, and doodle, and pantomime, and then do what they had wanted from the beginning and get the hell away from them.

If they’d let her.

Shit.

Now that they thought she could see every useless detail of every day, they might not want her to leave. Too bad. Once they were in a good position, Frey was done. Happily ever after would have to happen without her. She’d have a private party with Glory, and they’d drink all the wine in Rivendell.

That was that. Decision made.

A tiny part of her mind gawked at the fact that the haze of the forest wasn’t bothering her in that moment as she thought it through. But then, most of her mind was screaming arguments back and forth about the Ring. Far too many of the shouts were for her to take the ring and take it now. Make it hers and never let go.

Take the ring, take power, and ensure everyone she liked got their happy ending.

And they didn’t want to be quiet. Hence the decision.

“Miserable piece of magic bullshit. You ass. You whore. I hate you so much Sauron. You’re ruining my opportunity for happy. You’re ruining any and all opportunities for sex. Also you’re evil and kill folk. Also, why can’t you just be all cuddly and nice and easy to kill. Why do you have to ruin everything? You fucking, cockgobbling shit sucking, cunt punching--"

"Freya?"

 

* * *

 

Two days after the spiders attacked, Thorin’s company was becoming more and more affected by the filthy haze under the trees. Without the path beneath their feet it was only too easy to be lost in the swirl of delusion and delirium. Some of them had managed to shake it aside. Not permanently, but it seemed that so long as Thorin kept his focus on his mind, on the importance of what came next, and on Bilbo, he could keep his wits about him.

His wits were not pleased with the situation.

It was not beyond hope, but the chances of them reaching the Mountain in time, or at all, were dwindling.

Since the others were more impaired, he took a watch every night. They kept doubles now, staring away from the firelight, looking for any glimmer of a spider’s eyes. They listened for any scrap of sound as something moved toward them.

Bofur was on the other side of camp. He was cogent half the time, and the rest he seemed to get lost in musings and jokes that only he had heard. He was not bickering as many of the others were.

Thorin shifted, and returned his hand to running through Bilbo’s hair. It was the only part of him visible. The rest was hidden away beneath blankets and cloaks.

The moths were still plaguing them.

With a flick, Thorin killed another that hand landed on his leg.

Perhaps it was only because hobbits were more attuned to the disease upon the forest, but Bilbo was clearly affected by the forest far worse than the rest. When he was affected at all. As they had walked, Bilbo had explained that sometimes the air was so thick with decay he could barely breathe, and that two or three steps later, it would feel entirely different.

He had likened it to fog, to clouds, to patches of disease. None of them seemed to satisfy the hobbit’s understanding.

So Thorin kept close during the day, and closer still at night.

His hobbit was having nightmares. He wasn’t acknowledging them, but Thorin watched him tremble and twitch while he slept. Each time, he would try to ease his hobbit out of them, and then feigned ignorance of what had caused Bilbo to wake. Which was what he was doing now.

Bilbo had begun to twist,shifting as if to escape some imagined foe, and Thorin carded his fingers through the curls in his lap, easing him awake.

When he sat up in a jolt, Thorin caught him by the shoulders and let him lay back down.

“You’re well.”

Bilbo nodded.

Then he curled tighter into Thorin’s leg with a hand clutching at the fur of his coat.

The rest of camp was undisturbed. Not even Bofur had turned to check.

As Bilbo began to doze back off, Thorin turned to follow a nearby rustle of leaves. Freya was where she usually was, far on the edge of the camp. Despite Thorin’s efforts to speak to her since the spiders, to thank her, she had grown more standoffish.

Without another option, Thorin had spoken to his nephews about her during one of the rare bright patches of the forest.

After an initial reluctance, they had begun. Bilbo had already told him about how she had dived to place herself in between himself and the spider that day. Bilbo’s subsequent lecture on the incivility of his continued distrust had been enough to crack some of Thorin’s shell. Not entirely. Which his sister-sons knew. They talked through more than an hour, repeating themselves and struggling to maintain a clear thought.

They explained enough.

Freya was taking her cue from Thorin’s actions. So long as Thorin did not consider her to be a member of the company, she would keep herself distant. In light of the rising danger of the forest, her self imposed exile would see her killed. The hammer Fili had tried to return to her was still on Thorin’s belt. She had not asked for it, and since she had not allowed Thorin near enough to attempt a conversation, he had not really considered returning it.

Before the fractured conversation could conclude, Fili had stopped them walking to present a strange request.

"If she is having a nightmare, watch her when she wakes." Fili had asked.

"She should be woken if she has night terrors."

“No,” Fíli interrupted too quickly, “no she shouldn't."

Thorin had acquiesced, not knowing what would cause his compassionate nephew to sanction another's suffering.

Watching her as she tossed her head, he understood.

Nightmares and imagined horrors were common; he had suffered from them since Smaug came. And these were severe enough that he would have woken a fellow warrior if they had just been memory. This was something different. Fili's hesitation made sense, and Thorin filled the holes in the patchy request and the bizarre conversation with his nephews.

So when she woke from her visions, Thorin was watching her, rather than the forest around them. Freya clamored through the camp, counting quietly, increasingly panicked until she noticed Bilbo beside him.

Then she groaned and walked into the dark without weapon or light to protect herself.

Thorin hesitated.

Little good had come of their previous interactions. No. It was perhaps better to say that no good had come of them. But Bilbo’s tirade still echoed, and someone would need to pursue her, to keep her from getting eaten by a spider if nothing else. Bofur wasn’t an option.

He grabbed a branch and turned gingerly to throw it at Fili to get his attention. Instead, Bilbo sat up, and poked him in the side.

“Don’t even think about it Thorin. You’re going.”

“I don’t believe that would be wise.”

“I don’t believe I was asking.” Bilbo hauled himself up to sit on the log Thorin had claimed. “I’ll take the watch til you return. Go talk to her, drag her back to camp, something. Oh,” Bilbo tapped the hammer’s head, “Give her that, and do your best not to threaten her life when you do.”

In the dim shadows of the low fire, Thorin saw the immovable expression, and kissed his forehead.

“Go on you ridiculous thing, before she gets even more lost than we are.” There was a little hint of genuine concern in his order. There was a little bit of the fear that they were all too lost to possibly survive, but Bilbo poked him again, and Thorin had no choice but to rise.

With a nod to Bofur’s curious glance, he settled his weapons in place, and followed her path into the dark.

She had stopped no more than twenty steps away, muttering and talking to herself as she bashed at a tree with a branch.

“Freya.” He interrupted her as she escalated to higher volumes.

“ _Jesustapdancingchrist_.”

He caught her by the arm as she startled to keep her from falling. The way she recoiled from him reminded him of their previous interactions, and he gestured broadly that he meant no harm. She still stared at him as if he was a danger though. Then her eyes flicked over to the trees, then to the camp, and were just as scared there.

His nephews had had some luck in extracting knowledge from her. Bilbo and Ori did as well. While Thorin had never truly tried, he was relatively certain that he would have none. Nevertheless, he needed to make an attempt.

As he often did, Thorin proceeded directly.

"You saw something while you slept." She took a moment, shaking her head and Thorin repeated the statement as simply as he could. "You sleep. You saw."

She nodded reluctantly, still leaning away from him.

"What?"

" _OhShityoureactuallyaskingme_. Thorin _younevertalktome. Likeatall. Idontknowwhyyouretalkingnow. Andwwwwoooowwww. Ijusthadanideayoullhate. OhhhhboyyyyyamIsorryforthis. ButIdontknowifIllgetasecondchance. AndImadeadecision. Justnow. AndsinceImgoingcrazy. AndsoImightneedtorunawayforever. Ihavetousethis. WhichmeansIneedtowarnyou. Ohfuckingballs. Ithinkthisistheonlywayyoulllisten_.” She babbled at him for a moment before pausing to think, "Thorin. I saw. Yes. I sleep and I saw." She began in her shaky Westron.

Thorin nodded.

"Thorin. I saw. _Shitpleasedontkillmefortellingyouthis. Itsonlysortofalie_. I saw Bilbo. Dead." She flinched back as she said it, as if expecting him to attack. Not that Thorin paid it much attention. He was caught on the pronouncement.

She clearly did not refer to a peaceful passing in old age.

"No."

She didn't reply to that. Freya just met his eyes and waited, fidgeting, but not backing down. It was dark enough that he could only just see her, despite his superior vision at night.

"No."

"Thorin. _Dontbedumb. Imean. Imlying. Iamtotallylyingtoyou. Butyoudontknowthat. YouallthinkIcanpredicteverythingbecauseofBambi. Soyouaregoingtobelieveme. Evenifyoudontwantto_.” She crossed her arms and glared until Thorin managed to force himself to ask for more detail or explanation.

It was the last thing he wanted. Hearing about it would be a torture with no guarantee that he could prevent it. He might be forced to see it begin and be helpless to stop it one day.

"How? When?"

"Erebor."

"Smaug?" Thorin's blood went cold. He knew the job as it was listed in the contract. His hobbit was contracted to steal the arkenstone from the dragon. A dragon she had repeatedly assured them was entirely alive. He would have the contract changed, thrown out. He would stop Bilbo from risking his life like that, and they would find another answer to the problem looming at the end of their quest.

But she shook her head and muttered, " _YouwillsooooookillmeifyoufindoutIlied. Butjustincasewedogetoutofthisforestandkill_ Smaug _andmanagealltherestlikecanon. Justincaseyouneedtoknowthis_." She caught his eye again in the barely there light of the fire behind them, and tapped him on the chest. "You."

"No." He spat. He didn't know he had stepped back toward camp until she set a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Thorin. You Erebor? You are Thror. You are Thror? Bilbo is dead. And _Imreallyhopingyoudontkillmeforwarningyou_."

“I would never hurt him, I would never let him come to harm. Whatever lies you spin, you will not convince me that I would do that.” He knew she would not understand him, and knew that he was speaking to himself more than he was to her.

She didn’t respond, or react. Freya looked at him calmly, compassionately, and while there was a flare of distrust at the change in her behavior, it still felt true.

Beyond true.

Prophetic.

“How? Why?”

“ _Youllbecomeobssessedwithyourshinyrock. Withthegold. Theresarmiesandwarandasiege. Idontknowhowtoexplainanyofthis. Fuckityfuck. Okummmmm. NopeIdontknowhowtoexplain. Okaysothearkenstone? Wait. Shityoudidntreact. Doesthatwordnotcount? Whatthefuck? Arkenstoneisaname! Okayfinefinefine._ Thorin. Thror? Rock?” She gestured a shape in her hands, “Rock of Thror? You want white rock?”

She floundered another moment.

“The arkenstone?” Thorin asked.

“Arkenstone?”

“The king’s jewel. Revered by all dwarves, and proof of the right to rule Erebor.”

Freya blinked at him. “ _ImgoingtoassumeImright_. You want Arkenstone. Bilbo is go Arkenstone. You sword, orcrist? Bilbo is dead.”

“I would never hurt him.” He hissed.

She waited.

The Arkenstone was the focus of the quest, it would let him call for aid from the other clans of the dwarves. It would see him properly called king.

It was not more important to him than Bilbo. He would not hurt Bilbo for that stone. He had seen his grandfather fall to obsession with it. He had seen how everything else was pushed aside in favor of adoration of that gem.

He would never be like that. Thorin would never allow himself that weakness. He knew the damage that it could cause, and had vowed to himself time and again in his life that he would never become his grandfather.

However. Malicious or not, untrustworthy or not, rude, insulting, tactless and insufferable as she had been, Freya had yet to speak false.

The deer, the medicine, the spiders, the names of weapons and strangers.

She had never spoken false.

She was not wholly sane. She was a risk, but she was not a liar.

Freya had no love for Thorin, as he had none for her, but she had put herself in risk to help Bilbo before. She had stared at him for days and made Thorin’s gut twist, seeing the danger only. Then, unarmed, she had protected him.

In Goblintown -- which he tried not to think of -- she had tried to kill him. Thorin thought she had. Was sure she had. But she had a gift of prophecy. There was no way for him to deny that now. Which meant the only explanation for what had happened….

Thorin swallowed to keep himself from getting sick.

Bilbo and the others had hinted at the prospect. No, they had told him this, and he had refused to hear it.

That, if she did not mean them harm, then the only reason she had to have risked Bilbo’s life, was in deference to a greater threat.

He stared at her, recalling the tortures that the goblin king had promised. What he had intended to do to her, to all of them. What goblins did to things that seemed innocent. Thorin recalled the way she had tried to keep focus on herself, and accepted with a weight in his gut, that she had traded for Bilbo’s fate. And in repayment, he had tried to kill her.

She had been ready to return to the goblin caves to find Bilbo, maybe more ready than Thorin had been.

“Thorin. _Yourebrusingmyarm_. _Ifyouregonnakillmedoitfast_. _Causeyouvegotsomecrazyonyourfacerightnow_.”

She clawed his fingers off her shoulder, where he had grabbed her in a panic. Thorin had barely been present, barely thinking, but she had done nothing to threaten him.

Freya did not like him, and did not trust him. Had not in any conversation or interaction.

Ice flooded his veins as the pieces fell together.

She had seen Thorin kill Bilbo.

It was no wonder she snarled and snapped at Thorin’s every flare of temper.

“Thorin, you are good? _DidIbreakyou_? _Ifyoukeelovertheyregonnablameme_.”

He straightened.

Freya wasn’t touching him, just watching, arms extended and unsure of what to do. He caught one of her hands, and pressed the hammer into it. There wasn’t any hope of explaining his shift in thought. Nor did it help that he still did not want her near them. She protected Bilbo though.

She was gaping at him, then at the weapon, then back at him.

“ _Imconfused. Wearentabouttoduelorsomething? Because… Ireallythoughtyoudbeangrieraboutthis_.”

“Freya.” He interrupted. “You do not want Bilbo-- dead.” His voice caught as he said it.

She nodded solemnly.

“You do not want Fili or Kili dead.”

She nodded emphatically.

“If you have seen such things then it is only reasonable--”

“Thorin.” She interrupted, “And I not want you dead. King Thorin of Erebor.” The energy and anger she normally directed at him was turned into something fiercely protective.

Thorin shook aside the shock of her allegiance, and continued. They both still were holding the hammer’s handle, and he gripped her hand. “You will keep them safe.”

“What safe -- what is safe?”

“Safe is not dead.”

“Yes. I want safe. Fili, Kili, Bilbo, Thorin.”

“You will keep them safe. Fili. Kili. Bilbo. I will protect myself.”

She blinked at him a few times before she exhaled and spoke. All he could understand of it was the exhaustion. And the resignation. “ _Dammittohell. Ijusthadadamnplan. Dontaskmetokeepthemalive._ Please Thorin? _Dontaskmetokeepthemalive. Idontevenknowhowanymore. Youremuchbetteratthis. Ineedtogetthefuckawayfromallofyou. Especiallyawayfromyourboyfriend._ ” She was shaking her head, over and over, denying it, then caved, “ _Fuckinghellfine_. Safe.”

She clapped her hand to join their grip.

“ _Butlook_. You are Thror?” It was half a threat the way she intoned his grandfather’s name.

“I expect nothing less.” He stopped her.

She startled, catching the tone of what he had said if not the meaning.

“Thorin? I am… _howdoIexplainringlust_? _Youknowwhat_? _Illsavethatforanotherday_. I want safe Bilbo, Fili, Kili, and Thorin.” She insisted on the last one. “ _Youreanidiot. Thisisgoingtogoterribly_.”

He withdrew his hands, leaving the weapon in hers as a token of trust, and glanced over his shoulder to the camp. She was utterly mad, but would keep them safe if she could. Even from him. She believed the risk lay in Erebor, but was already watching them, already wary of Thorin. As she should be. The strain of madness in his veins was always a risk.

In the meantime, he had to keep her alive.

He escorted her back, and stopped her when she tried to sit on the edge of camp. Against her protests, he pulled her to the center of camp, and made her lay back down to rest where they would be able to protect her.

 

* * *

 

Hobbits were supposed to be fond of all places that were green and growing. It was carved into their bones as surely as a need to gather shiny rocks was present in the dwarves. So, at some level, Bilbo was aware that the forest of Mirkwood ought to be a place he enjoyed.

He did not.

It was sick.

Sicker than many a plant or tree he had seen die the next day in the Shire.

It was green, yes, but it wasn't a shade that inspired great faith in him. It was never vibrant, never a good shade of green. No, the forest was smothering under something foul, and Bilbo was quite sure that even if every hobbit in the Shire turned their attention to the place, it would remain exactly as miserable as it currently was.

Wretched place.

And wretched company. With the notable exception of his dwarf, the company was half useless, and half fighting. His dwarf was half lost in thought, and half blindly focused on getting them out of the place.

Someone had to be.

And it was better than the others.

Bilbo had taken several minutes to convince himself that he was even walking in the correct direction that morning. It wasn't a terribly encouraging sign if anyone was asking him, which they weren't. Other than Thorin, hardly anyone was speaking to him at all. Freya outright fled when he tried to walk beside her. The rest of the company was only half coherent. There had been a few clear days after those spiders had attacked. They had all been more useful. They had known what was happening around them, and they made good time.

Not that they knew where they were going. Or which direction they needed to take. And it was just so blasted overwhelming in the eternal dusky dark.

Bilbo was seriously considering retracting his request that Thorin keep his mouth shut on any formal announcements. That way at least he could hold onto his damn hand as they trudged onward. It helped. Not just to calm the persistent pleading need to be beside him.

It properly helped.

Each night when they laid down in a patch of Eru-knew-what while divebombed by hundreds of bugs, they would lean into each other and clasp hands and it was the only time of the day when Bilbo felt like he could think in a straight line.

The others knew, of course they knew. Bilbo wasn't pretending that he wasn't regularly climbing the company's leader like he was a handsy tree. He just didn't want to cope with bad jokes and lecherous commentary and implications about suitability. Not on top of everything else.

And if Bilbo was also a touch worried about the implications of a formal relationship with someone that was going to become King of Erebor, that was no one's business but his own. It was a perfectly reasonable concern.

But he didn't plan to mention it to anyone.

The idea of having to defend his interest was more than distasteful, and tended to lead him to the image of himself on a platform, attempting to sway over the full population of Erebor that he deserved to keep their King. The dwarves tended to be armed. And angry.

Sometimes they turned into orcs and attacked. Sometimes they turned into spiders. One time they turned into pies.

The forest really wasn’t doing well by him.

"Bilbo?"

Oh dear. He must have stopped walking again. Thorin was in front of his face, and he hadn't noticed until warm hands had slid onto his shoulders. By the glower, it hadn’t been the first effort to gain Bilbo's attention.

Bugger.

"Do we even know if we're going in the right direction Thorin? I mean that, do we even know if we're walking where we are supposed to? That is, we aren't, we know we aren't, what with how we lost the bloody path, but that's not what I meant."

"Bilbo, calm down."

"I am calm!"

Shouting always helped to reinforce that point. Thorin's mouth quirked into a half smile and the hands on Bilbo's shoulders pulled him into a tight hug. That was all it took to settle the maelstrom of delusion into something that Bilbo could ignore.

"We will get out of here. And, there are much greater challenges we will need to overcome."

"That's hardly encouraging."

"It wasn't meant to be. It was simply a truth." Thorin's voice had a bit of something hidden beneath it, but Bilbo didn't have the energy or the wherewithal to try and find it. He certainly didn't have the capacity to bully it out of the dwarf. Possibly later than night.

"For all we know, we're walking due south, Mr I got Lost in Hobbiton." He poked Thoin in the side, "Twice."

"And what do you propose we do then, oh Master Burglar?"

Pressed against Thorin, his mind decided to be helpful, and Bilbo grinned. "I suppose we need a change of view."

********

Bilbo gulped a deep breath as he managed to get above the canopy and could have shouted in delight. It was bright and sunny and clean and wonderful. He would happily sit on top of this tree until the sun set and the spiders appeared and they all got eaten. At least that way he'd still remember what the sky looked like. He'd know what it was like to breathe and have it feel healthy.

Had he been travelling alone, and not with a great clomping party of dwarves, he would probably have considered just climbing from tree to tree and ducking his head above the leaves to breathe whenever he needed to do so. But, if he was travelling alone, he'd have long since thrown up his hands and gone back to his smial. So, the question was a bit silly.

Bright blue butterflies fluttered in the air around him and he decided that they were much better than the dusty grey cousins that were driving him to distraction each night.

And best of all, in the distance, he could see the Mountain.

He shouted down to the others, but heard no reply. Reasonable. He was rather high above them, and there was a great mess of tree and leaf and everything else between him and them.

Though, more likely, they were still standing at the base of the tree trying to calm down Freya.

She had not liked his proposed idea that he climb a tree and confirm where they needed to go. Not at all. Hysterical was probably the word for it. Bofur had provided a few that were somewhat less polite.

They were also appropriate.

But Bilbo had refused to budge. They needed to know where they were going, and even the chance that she was worried over something she had seen wasn’t going to stop him. They needed to know where they were, how much farther they needed to travel. Their packs were light, and getting lighter. They needed to stop wandering in circles and get it right from here on out.

Up above the trees, it all seemed perfectly easy.

Freya had been increasingly strange in the last days, though, looking back, Bilbo could now notice that Thorin had been more tolerant of her ever since that night they had spoken. There was a story there he didn't know, and he made a mental note to get the answer out of Thorin as soon as he climbed back to the ground.

Bilbo took another happy breath, and reminded himself that the others were probably panicking a bit over his prolonged absence.

A few more minutes couldn't hurt.

Fresh air was restorative.

He needed to be thinking at his best when he descended.

And the more he pondered it, the stranger it was that Thorin had begun to -- well, trust would be an exaggeration -- accept Freya. He knew that she had the hammer they had previously denied her. Bilbo knew that something was making her loonier than she had been, and had to hope it was an effect of the forest and not her true colors showing.

Other than trying to protect him from a spider, she made him a bit uncomfortable. Like she always knew where he was.

"Stop gathering wool, Bilbo. The dwarves aren't going to suddenly find the path, which means you'll need to go give them a helpful shove in the right direction."

With one last huge gulp of sweet, sweet, blessedly clean air, he ducked down and began his descent.

Barely halfway down, he leaned over a branch to shout to Thorin that he knew which way to go, and abruptly stopped.

They were gone, and fear caught him like a blow.

They were gone and the forest was too full of danger for him to think it an innocuous absence.

Bilbo began clamoring down faster, moving as fast as he ever had as a thieving faunt back home, and as he dropped onto the ground, he finally heard the shout off to his left. It was a dwarf, that was what mattered, and he had his little sword out when he chased after the noise. The two spiders before, they had seemed as foul as any creature could be, creatures of darkness and evil. The company had all believed that they would not be attacked during the day. They had kept careful watch from dusk to dawn, but had thought that they were safe in the barely there light of day.

They'd been wrong.

His company was scattered.

Kili was backed against a tree, firing off arrows too quick to track, and having sporadic impact on the fight. Thorin and Dwalin were nearest, and it seemed they were trying to fall back toward where they had been.

Bilbo didn't stop as he ran, not until he was at Thorin's side. His dwarf noticed his arrival as Bilbo slammed his little sword down into the head of a beast as it tried to flank around them..

"Bilbo!" His name was a relieved gasp, but Thorin's voice turned intense with his next words. "We need to join with the others."

Bilbo nodded, reaching for his pocket. "I'm going to disappear. No! I'll explain later, Thorin."

Not bothering to wait for permission, he slid on the ring and half tackled the second spider that Dwalin was holding back with frenzied blows. Some rather vulgar khuzdul cursing chased after him, and Bilbo knew he would need to make amends for, in all probability, scaring the boots off of Thorin.

That had to be later. For now, he felt clear headed for the first time in weeks, and his dwarves needed him. Much as he had leaving the goblin caves, he pushed aside the prudent fears and charged into danger. This time, however, he was invisible.

That was both a blessing and a curse.

Nori's staff nearly caught him in the face on a back swing. The spiders couldn't see him. But now he could understand their hissing and spitting as words.

"Kill them! Grab them! Sting them and eat them!"

"Drag them away and drain them dry!"

"That one! That one! Grab that one!"

Bilbo hadn't a clue which of the things was speaking, but they all seemed to be in agreement on their plan to eat the company.

And apparently this need to eat other people was just a unifying element of the world that his mother and his books had failed to mention.

From below, he shoved his blade into the gut of a spider about to reach Ori, and heard it shriek, “It stings! Stings!” as it collapsed.

Bilbo tried to count the dwarves as he fought. He wanted to be sure that this cluster of them had them all. But it wasn't as if they were all going to stand in a neat line and let Bilbo bop them on the head as he numbered them.

At the least, Bombur was missing. His bulk made that obvious. When the dwarves next had the advantage, Bilbo left the group of them, and ran a loop, ducking the stingers and legs that got in his way, and cutting through them when he could spare the time.

But there was no Bombur.

There was a tremendous clicking chorus rising as he ran, and he looked into the murk beyond the nearest trees to see more, many more, spiders coming for them.

He abandoned his search and ran back.

Slipping the ring back off, to Thorin's obvious relief, he shouted, "More coming!"

"Where are the others?"

In the momentary calm, he looked them over. There was more than one face missing.

"I didn't see them."

"They were driven off. We were separated back by the tree you climbed, you didn't see them?" Kili yelled, even as he tried to keep himself from running. Bilbo looked around the circle again, and found out why.

Fili was missing.

Bilbo turned back to see the same panic in Thorin’s face. Both of them were about to charge what sounded like an advancing army.

But the clicking was nearly on them, and the rustle of leaves and branches could not be ignored. Bilbo shook his head, grabbed Thorin’s arm, and saw Dwalin catch Kili’s aborted escape. He shouted for them all to run.

It was pointless.

They could not outdistance the spiders. There was no hope of them reaching safe ground or even defensible ground. They didn’t know where they were. Bilbo had lost track of which way was north. Even if he had known, they didn’t know where they could run to that would offer them a respite. But the Company was not going to let their enemy win easily.

Now that he knew their weak points, Kili was felling them with frighteningly fast shots from his bow and a vicious shadow on his face. Dwalin and Ori were holding off three between them, and as soon as one of the spiders drew close enough, they were sure to end the thing.

Thorin was ferocious. Orcrist sliced through bodies and legs as if they were nothing.

Everyone was doing what they could, but the spiders were seemingly endless.

A spider fell from the trees above them, landing on Kili, targeted for the bow in his hands. Bilbo was hidden by the ring's power, but heard the spiders shout and cheer as Kili fell. He didn't even have time for fear. He certainly had no time to try and help. The spider dropped, dead, pinning the prince in place, but shielding him from the others.

Bilbo spun to look up, automatically thinking of the eagles, never mind that it was impossible. So he watched, unseen, as elves appeared from branches and bushes, wielding deadly sharp blades and bows that killed the spiders nearly as fast as Kili had.

There was a shift in the air as they arrived, as if they carried a cloud of clean air with them, and the spiders recoiled. Shrieking about the elves and about the fight, the bulk of the spiders retreated. The rest died under elvish weapons.

Bilbo was going to remove the ring. He was going to reappear and stand beside Thorin. But the leader of the elvish company turned with with an unforgiving mein, and Bilbo elected to remain hidden for the time.

It was a wise decision. As Kili managed to hoist the corpse off of him, the weapons of the elves turned on the dwarves.

"What business do you have on elvish land?"

"I wouldn't have thought elves would tolerate such creatures to live on their land." Thorin spat with a glance at the spider corpses around them.

The blonde leader was too slow to answer. A red headed warrior got there first, "We do not, as should be obvious, even to you, Master dwarf." She answered as she wrenched a blade out of the spider that had been atop Kili. With a comfortably familiar move, she swept the ichor from the weapon and resheathed it. Bilbo started when she reached out a hand to help Kili to his feet.

Not that the dwarf prince took it. He clamored upright on his own, no matter how he winced. He stepped toward his fallen bow, but the elf's respect did not extend that far. She escorted him to the others, and joined the guard encircling them.

"You have not answered my question Dwarf." The blonde leader was less respectful. Bilbo managed to duck below an elvish arm and sidled next to Thorin. All he could do was slip their hands together, but it was enough. A little of the fury was dissipated, and Thorin actually answered with a tiny measure of tact.

"We are travelling East to our kin, and were attacked by those creatures. There was no evidence of this being elvish land." Bilbo squeezed his hand tighter.

"I would think that dwarves would be familiar with having fell creatures living uninvited in their homes." Thorin's hand squeezed painfully, but he kept his tongue, "Yours is a small party to have crossed the forest. How many have you lost? Nine is hardly a caravan. And you have carry no goods. Has the forest been so challenging?"

Thorin's grip got even tighter.

"None. Why? Do elves regularly lose their way in this.... charming... forest?"

Bilbo ignored Thorin's impertinent response, too busy counting. Thorin was yelling, insulting, and the elf was replying in kind.

Nine.

That was all there was in Bilbo’s head.

Nine.

He was invisible at the time. So ten.

But ten wasn't fourteen.

It wasn't fifteen either.

Bilbo saw Kili's eyes flicking back and forth between Thorin and the trees, as if he was about to reveal their missing members. Bilbo didn't like the twist of his face as he did. He wasn't the only one that seemed to be tortured by their reduced numbers.

Fili was missing. So were Bombur, Bofur, Balin, and Freya.

He shuddered, and Thorin’s hand returned the same worried panic.

He almost missed hearing the elf lose his patience, ordering them all bound and imprisoned. Thorin had to let him go, and Bilbo ducked away from the elves as his friends were taken prisoner. He returned to Thorin as soon as he could, and tugged at his sleeve. He did not want to separate. He did not want to have to face the forest alone. He also did not want to be caught sneaking through the elves’ domain.

While Dwalin made a racket over the lost of his knuckledusters, he whispered, “Should I try to find the others?”

Thorin shook his head, grimacing, and a few moments later, they were being led away, prisoners of the elven king.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Remember when I said that canon and I weren't going to be such good friends soon? Yup. That's beginning now. 
> 
> No Khuz this time. Strange, I know. I'll do what I can for you next chapter I guess.


	17. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many, few of which work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Meph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles) is just phenomenal, you should read everything he writes.  
>  Now then, it has been a weird two weeks, but you're getting a chapter anyway. Much Khuz this time. Hover and a box at the end. As well as another language, bc I hate myself, and so had to do double the formatting. However, the language is mostly cursing, just fyi.

“Fíli!”

Balin had the spider’s pincers caught in his hands as it tried to remove his head. He was pressed into leaves and sticks and dirt, and his sword had fallen when the creature had tackled him. The crown prince was somewhere nearby. Hopefully.

He might have run off to hunt down one of the creatures, in which case Balin was facing a much more difficult problem. Screeching ripped at his ears, and something wet splashed over him. The spider writhed, then collapsed its substantial weight down, pinning Balin, and driving the air from his lungs. All Balin could see was the dead eyes over his face.

Fíli appeared a second later, levering the spider off with his sword hilts as handles; both were sunk into its body. While Balin got back to his feet, he saw the dwarf draw them both out and shake the ichor from them. Claiming his own weapon, they chased the sounds of angry spiders and angrier dwarves through the trees.

When the spiders had attacked, the group had scattered, trying to keep alive, but the majority had headed one direction. Balin and Fíli had had no choice but to move in the other. Whoever else was nearby was fighting fiercely, loudly, and likely bringing down more of the beasts with each of their shouts.

Fíli was ahead of him, but not by much. Balin jumped over the last fallen tree, and slammed his blade into the nearest of the spiders. Fíli was deeper into the skirmish already, making his way to where Bofur and his mattock were holding a half dozen of them at bay, steadily losing ground.

There were corpses on the ground, bashed and crushed into viscous pulp, more than Bofur could have brought down alone. Good, there were others nearby then.

Bofur ducked at the warning shout, and the sight of one of Fili’s knives held to throw. Balin finished the now crippled thing. Looking for anyone else had to come second to dealing with the overgrown monstrosities.

Old warriors still knew how to clear a field. They just would rather have a sit and a smoke. Especially when there were young warriors about to deal with the more energetic of the beasties.

Balin leaned into a tree as the last of the spiders that hadn’t fled was turned to goo.

Bofur wrenched out his mattock and looked about, shouting, “Bombur! Where’d you get off to? Bombur?”

“Bofur??” Balin and the others spun, trying to find where it came from, “A little help please!”

“Bombur?”

“Bofur!”

“Bombur!”

The forest muddied the sound, and it wasn’t until the crash of branches sounded off to the left that the three could try and help.

Bombur emerged suddenly from the undergrowth, spattered black and teal from the goop of the spiders, his heavy ladle crooked from bashing them apart. Just behind him was an equally filthy Freya, also hurdling over branches and stones.

Bofur snagged his brother in a quick embrace, relieved to have found another of their company alive and hale.

Frey, however.

Distracted by kin, Bofur didn’t notice when Frey snatched his mattock, dropping her much smaller hammer to the ground in its place. She then started jogging back where they’d come from. Didn’t so much as stop to look at the others. Balin and Fíli followed on battle instinct, coming around a dense bank of brush in time to see her bury the point of the mattock in the spider’s body.

Ichor and parts splattered.

She giggled.

More than a little bit hysterically.

Frey snapped her arms, flinging bits to the ground. She spat and sputtered, looking bereaved for the lack of something clean to wipe her face. Then it turned to laughter. Rather more deranged than anything else Balin could think to label it with. Still laughing, she rocked the handle to loosen it, and, with effort, managed to get it out of the corpse.

 _“Fuckyouspider. Thatswhatyougetfortryingtoeat_ Bombur. Bombur _isgoodpeople_.”

Balin spared a glance at Fíli, whose eyebrows were trying to leave his face as he stared.

But the forest was silent around them.

The constant whicker and clicking that had followed them was gone. While Balin wasn’t feeling himself, and wouldn’t go so far as to describe his mind as clear, the attack had knocked all of the company out of the stupor they had fallen into while trudging beneath the accursed trees.

It might return.

No, that was too hopeful.

It would return and they’d be back to useless.

Thorin had seemed to be keeping afloat for the last week or so, but the rest had been flagging, wandering, confused and snippy since before the path had abandoned them. After, it had only degenerated.

The battle rush of the spiders descending on them had thrown them all back to themselves, given them a chance to fight unclouded. Balin kept out his weapon and focused on that surge of energy and necessity.

“Balin. Fíli.” She nodded to them in greeting, with the mattock slung over her shoulder, and cheerfully led them back to the Ur brothers.

Little tweaks of laughters still shook her occasionally, but she merrily gave over the weapon to a bewildered Bofur with her thanks. She and Bombur grinned at each other. Bofur nudged his brother puzzled by the presence of a battle-born camaraderie.

“ _Okayyes. Thisisgoingwell. Letskillmorespiders. Nobodygotstung. Igottosmooshseveralofthefuckers. Thissortaevenlookslikecanon. Thisisgreat_.” She was smearing the sludge and dirt from the handle of her hammer onto an obliging tree, muttering happily to herself.

Balin signed to Bofur to keep an eye on their ever-inexplicable follower, grabbed Fíli by the elbow, and pulled him a few steps away for a conference.

“There will be more of them laddie.” Balin started.

Fíli didn’t hesitate; there was no need for him to drop out of his amiable personality, it was already gone.

The prince answered in a clipped, commanding tone. “We need to find the others, then. We’ll head back the way we came, hopefully they’ll do the same, otherwise we should be able to track their path away from that tree Bilbo climbed. She seems optimistic, but I’d rather not trust in that. We cannot make any decisions until we know what has happened to the rest.”

“Fíli, your uncle spoke to you of this before we left Ered Luin—“

“That’s not going to happen. Don't. We just need to go find the others. They cannot have gotten too far in this much time. We will find them.”

Balin stared until Fíli turned from watching the other three, face immovable, stared until the prince was paying attention.

“If we do not?”

“Not right now, Balin.”

“When would you prefer then?”

“When we know.”

“Fíli, lad.”

“Not yet, Balin.” He smirked briefly, “If we five are fine, if Freya was able to hold her own, then I cannot image they are anything more troubling than tired and covered in dead spider bits.” He shouted to the rest, where Freya was trying to work out what Bombur was saying to his brother.

They startled, and tromped over.

“We need to meet back with the others.” Fíli continued.

The prince gave them a quick glance and Balin would have preened in pride if they’d had time.

As it was, Balin just took the tail of the line and let Fíli track their somewhat erratic path.

It was trackable though. Slow going, and twice they lost it for a few minutes. It worked. Somewhat. They did find that enormous tree they had stood beneath when everything had gone mad.

They had fled with a dozen spiders bearing down on them; they had had no choice but to run for better ground. Over his shoulder, he had seen the others being forced the opposite direction.

He stopped dead.

At the time they had all been still so confused. He hadn’t thought.

The spiders had come from everywhere. They had appeared so suddenly that there had been little in their minds save for decades of training to fight.

Bilbo had been up the tree, trying to orient them.

Thorin wouldn’t have taken it well.

No. That didn’t come close.

Balin sent a quick plea to any of the Valar listening that Dwalin had kept his head enough to stick close to their leader when he had inevitably done something rash in search of or defense of their hobbit. Fíli was looking to Balin as he looked over the area for any evidence or sign from any of the Company. This was the natural place to return to if lost. A standard procedure in fact. If a dwarf was separated from the group, they would return to the last place they had all been together. If they had to leave from there again, then a sign was left.

There was nothing.

The day was starting to fade.

Balin glanced to the others and saw the same trace of disquiet in their expressions.

Except for Freya, who was looking at them all curiously, but unbothered, by the missing members of the company.

Balin caught her attention and asked why she was calm.

“Elves.” She almost chirped the answer. “And Bilbo.”

“But the spiders—“

“Bilbo.”

She was absolutely confident, dismissing his concern with Bilbo’s name as if that made any sense.

The others were gaping.

“ _Butthatdoesntmatter. Look_ Balin. Bilbo _managedtosaveallofyourassesfromthespidersbefore. Nowheand_ Thorin _areallkindsofinlove. Itsgonnabefine_. Spiders are injury for fourteen? Bilbo safe. Fourteen are safe. T _henofcoursetheresthenextchapter. WhichImveryexcitedabout._ Elves. Thranduil. Legolas. Tauriel. _Itsfine. Stoplookinglikeeveryoneisdead. Stopthat. IfIcanhandlespiders_ Bilbo _hasgotthiscovered_.”

Unsure how to respond to the implication that Bilbo was going to protect the rest of the company, Fíli started them all walking again, following the tracks the others had left.

They followed the corpses of spiders as much as the marks of passage through the brush. That was encouraging. There were quite a lot of corpses. But even when they found where their companions had clearly made a stand, there was no one there.

Kili’s bow lay on the ground and many of his arrows were embedded in the spider corpses. There were also two or three scattered shafts that were undeniably elvish.

“Yes! Elves!” Frey yelled with a grin, holding one up.

Balin’s face fell.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t realize there was any crime committed by being attacked by spiders in your fasslaa — your exceedingly hospitable forest.”

Bilbo nodded at Thorin’s correction and amendment.

Not that anyone could see him.

All the same, his presence was most certainly necessary since Thorin seemed to be utterly incapable of making it more than half a sentence without resorting to insult and bluster. At this rate, the guards that were surrounding the other eight members of the company in the room somewhere behind them were going to become jailers in truth instead of armed escorts.

Hence the pinching.

Bilbo knew it wasn’t actually hurting Thorin, just making him aware of the hobbit’s displeasure. On a hobbit, pinching someone on the ear like that would put them on the ground more likely than not.

His efforts weren’t going to matter if the elf’s scowl was anything to go by. The king was draped over his throne like a cat in the sun, and had a similar feline amusement. Like a cat with prey.

And really, having an enormous throne up on top of a platform was excessive. The elf was tall enough already.

“And what were you doing in my forest?”

“ _Travelling_.”

“Travelers do not often pass through this forest, and certainly not on the path made by my people.” Thorin started, but Thranduil ran him over, “Not that you were on the path. You were on my lands.”

It was too much to hope that Thorin might peaceably apologize.

“Yours is a small party considering who you are. Do you merit so little protection? Or is this most that could be bothered to attend you?”

Bilbo realized he had growled a bit after noticing that Thorin’s had been louder. Perhaps Bilbo had just grown a bit protective of the great sod standing next to him, or perhaps it was because Bilbo knew what had occurred when Thorin had asked for help, but the hobbit very much wanted to empty a pitcher of wine on the prancing bastard’s head.

“Imrid d’ursul, mibilkhags.” 

He recognized those words. Some of them at least. Enough of them.

And he agreed.

“Very well, if you don’t care to behave pleasantly,” Thranduil drawled with an icy smile, “Take him away and,” the smile grew, “keep him and the others safe. Do not worry Thorin Oakenshield, your company will be well looked after until you feel inclined to tell the truth, even if your pride holds your tongue for the next hundred years.”

He tried to keep up with Thorin as the guards saw him out of the throne room. He also tried to keep a sense of where he was, where they were going, where the rest of the company was going, which of the elves seemed to be in charge, and whether or not he would be better off chasing the company rather than Thorin. He actually slipped a hand into his dwarf’s when the elves left enough space to make it possible. Bilbo intended to give a quick squeeze to warn that he would be gone.

Thorin’s hand tightened in a way he couldn’t pretend was encouragement for Bilbo to walk from him. So Bilbo snuck along with the dwarf, losing track rapidly of where he was. Wherever they they intended to place Thorin was well away from the others.

It was dark, and it was chilly, though, no one seemed to be bothered by that except himself.

Maybe it was simply an effect of wearing the ring.

He didn’t like the way the world bled out at the edges. He didn’t like that it made it seem as if people kept leaving bits of themselves behind when they walked. He didn’t like that the elves glowed. He really didn’t like that whenever he wore it he felt all too ready to concur with Thorin’s hatred of said glowing elves.

However, there was the fact that being invisible meant that he was able to keep his dwarves safer, and now could stay near Thorin.

So, he supposed it was worth it.

Unfortunately, Bilbo wasn’t paying quite enough attention as the elves stopped their march.

He had to dodge when one of them grabbed Thorin’s arm, and he actually tripped as the dwarf was encouraged into the small cell.

Fully confident that he would be able to find a way back out again, Bilbo had intended to slip inside the cell. He had intended to climb atop Thorin, and kiss him until neither of them was quite so furious and frightened. He had intended to deal with all of this nonsense tomorrow.

But the door swung shut with Bilbo on the wrong side.

And it wasn’t as if he could ask the elves to pop it back open for him.

The elves didn’t speak. Just locked the door with a large key, and vanished the way they came.

Bilbo waited until they were too far away to hear, then waited even longer. Thorin, as patient as he ever was, sat on the— well, Bilbo assumed it was meant as a bed. He slipped off the ring, crammed it into his pocket, and smiled at the way Thorin’s anxiety melted.

Ridiculous dwarf.

“How do you do that? Not that I am not pleased to see you safe, but I believe that it would be known if your kind were able to disappear at will.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Bilbo.”

He frowned and fished the ring back from his pocket with only minor reluctance. “I found this in the mountains.”

Thorin watched him for a moment, distrustful, but finally shook it aside. “It kept you safe. And it has you standing free while we are imprisoned,” he shook his head again, “but I will say that few magic rings in this world come without consequences.”

Knowing by the tone that there was probably a novel worth of tragedy and history in that sentence, Bilbo wisely let it slide.

“I suppose since I’ve been put off my original intent in following you here, I may as well ask you a few dozen questions Thorin.”

“Your original intent didn’t involve questions?”

“It didn’t involve clothing either, I’ll have you know.” Bilbo smirked, and delighted in the way Thorin went red and shy. “But as that’s now off the table, or bed, or whatever the elves seem to think that slab of stone with a blanket is pretending to be, I suppose we should start planning an escape. The elvenking didn’t seem keen to let you all go.”

Thorin was still red when he looked up, but had that look of stunned adoration. It was almost the same as that night in the garden so long ago. Back in Rivendell when Thorin had watched with soft open eyes as Bilbo decked him with flowers of promises and intentions and love.

One day he would need to explain all that.

Not today.

Not when there were bars between them and Thorin’s heir was missing.

Bilbo cleared his throat.

“Don’t look at me like that. Anyone in my position would be trying to help you escape and you know that. It isn’t as it I’m doing something remarkable.”

Thorin just smiled wider.

“Now then, you must have had your reasons for not telling the elves that several members of our company are still lost out there in the woods, but I certainly can’t understand them. You don’t think that they’re going to lay siege to the place and demand your release do you? Fili and Bofur can be a bit rash, but not even they are so mad as all that.”

Thorin slipped a hand between the bars, grabbing Bilbo’s before he answered. “Balin is with them to maintain order. And, before you ever joined our quest, we tried to exhaust every possibility of what was to come, and how to respond.”

“Except for how to kill the dragon.”

“No. We do have plans for that as well, though we did believe it likely that the beast was dead.”

“He’s not. Apparently.”

“Would you like me to answer your question, you insufferable hobbit?”  

When was the last time they had been able to stand together without danger looming over them? Without worrying that the others would come by and they would have to pull apart, hasty and blushing? It must have been at Beorn’s home, but it felt like a lifetime ago. The haze of the forest had made it difficult to know what had occurred and when.

Thank Eru that didn’t seem to have permeated inside the elven kingdom.

Bilbo should have found a way to dive into the cell, to get past the elves, no matter the risk. They could be having this conversation wrapped around each other, not trying to take comfort in a glorified handshake.

Oh yes, Bilbo was in a great deal of trouble, and one of these days, he was going to have to explain a few things to this dwarf. To his dwarf.

Again, not today.

“Go on then.”

“Telling that kakhaf ilbêbzars that there were others in the forest would only have ensured he sent elves to find them. Their being captured would do us no good.”

“But they’re still lost out there, whether that ulbabzars knows it or not.”

“Do you doubt my heir?” Thorin retorted, with only a twitch of his lips at Bilbo’s use of profane, but correctly conjugated, khuzdul.

“Yes I do. Two days ago he walked right into a tree, Thorin.” Though, looking back, it had been amusing that he had then yelled at the tree for getting in his way.

“They will be fine. We were marched for several hours to reach this place, but it means they are no more than a few day’s travel from the borders of the forest. Balin is with them, and has travelled this region many times. They know what to do. We however, are in a somewhat more difficult circumstance.”

“How so?”

“Oh? Imprisonment isn’t enough for you to consider this difficult, would you rather the challenge be increased?”

Bilbo pinched Thorin’s thumb.

“I don’t have to save you, you know.”

“No, but I expect you will in spite of that.” Thorin’s grin was irrepressible.  

Bilbo mumbled an answer, not inclined to admit that he would happily ransom the whole of the Shire if it meant he could be rid of this dratted forest.

“What if they aren’t Thorin? What if they are still lost? What if they didn’t find each other? What if the spiders separated them and they were overwhelmed?”

Thorin’s hands squeezed and Bilbo cut off his rising panic.

“They are fine.”

“You can’t know that.”

Thorin smiled, encouraging and fervent, “No. But I can believe it, and I do.”

It was that easy for the dwarf. It was how he had gotten his people through their wandering times. It was how he managed to face each day when the world had been determined to drag him down. They had spent enough nights whispering to each other that Bilbo knew how deep conviction ran in Thorin’s bones.

It was persuasive, and it was gorgeous.

Bilbo kissed Thorin’s hand on a whim, nodding a bit too much to hide his wet eyes.

“Yes, well then.”

“Where are you going Bilbo?” he asked as the hobbit tried to pull away.

“Well, if the others are just fine and waiting for us out in the forest, then I need to get you lot out of here, and as soon as I can, I wager. Work to be done. Cells to be found. Escapes to be planned.”

“I always knew you would be useful to us.”

Bilbo lifted a brow, “No, you didn’t.”

One last squeeze between their hands, all they could manage in the circumstance, and Bilbo slipped on the ring, hoping that he’d be able to match Thorin’s confidence. He had no idea where to start, but staring at Thorin like a lovesick tween wasn’t going to help get any of them to freedom.

* * *

 

“No. No. _Itsallfine. Thisiscanon. Orcloseenough. Thisisgood_ Balin! Mirkwood? Mirkwood is blech. Yes? Not Good.” She hadn’t stopped talking since they had realized what must have happened. There was no sign of dwarvish blood on the ground, but that was hardly a guarantee. Their kin and company had been taken captive by the Elvenking of Mirkwood. There was a small chance that Thorin might have hit his head during the fight and suddenly learned to speak calmly with the elf. There was also a small chance that the dragon would leave the mountain if offered a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits.

Balin had been trying to listen to Freya, trying to understand the gestured, rambling, half westron explanations. She just kept repeating herself, and seemed blindly certain that Bilbo was not only safe, but a saviour, and currently tagging along with Thorin.

Bofur and Bombur were looking in long circles around the edge of the area, investigating shrubs and leaves for hidden comrades or additional weaponry.

Fíli was holding his brother’s bow.

And had not spoken since picking it up. There were arrows embedded in many of the bodies, and it was clear that many of the shots had felled the beasts in a single blow. Fíli had noticed those as well, but kept returning his eyes to the bow, abandoned on the ground.

The younger prince hadn’t left that behind willingly.

“Balin! _Yesthankyoulookatmeplease. Makesthesonganddanceeasier._ Thorin, Bilbo, ten? Thranduil! _Andtrustmethisisgood_. Thranduil is good. _Ipromise_. We go talk Thranduil? Yes?”

“Don’t think it’s going to help if we go talk with Thranduil, lass. Just end up captured as well. If words can get them out, Thorin can manage.”

She frowned, working out meaning. Then she scoffed, held up one hand, labelled it Thorin, labeled the other Thranduil, and began to demonstrate in sound effects and puppetry exactly how poorly that conversation would go.

She had a point.

They might not actually resort to biting as her reenactment implied, but it would be close.

Balin knew his king wasn’t likely to keep a civil tongue. Based on the evidence around them, the company had been taken prisoner; they had marched off in a line, leaving a trail they would easily follow. Could easily follow. To do so would only ensure that the elves found them.

Months ago, while they had been contemplating the plan for the quest over an old map and several mugs of ale, Thorin had dodged his heir’s question about what they would do if the dragon lived, by asking what would happen if Thorin was killed or missing. At the time it had been a clear attempt to avoid discussing something hopeless. All the same, it had resulted in the formation of several arrangements they agreed to follow.

Fíli remembered them, that was a given.  

After how much he fought before agreeing, he would still remember them when his hair was white instead of gold. It had been a long and unsettling night after that as they listed the myriad ways that the quest could go wrong, and wounded the youthful optimism of the crown prince in the process.

If Thorin was known to have been killed, Fíli would take charge of the quest. That had been an easy one. If Thorin was taken by orcs, and the company had a chance to retake him, they were allowed to attempt it, but not at the risk of the quest at large. They determined that night how long they would wait for injuries or unexplained absences. They determined the exact parameters in which Fíli would be expected to take over leadership.

Thorin had later confessed that he had done so to ease Fili’s mind should something occur. It would not be his decision to leave Thorin behind, it would simply be following his uncle’s commands.

And yes, they had discussed the potential for the majority of the company to be captured. The plan discussed had involved men not elves, but the principle held true.

Unless they were certain they could fix it, or certain that there were imminent executions, those that were not captured were to get to safety, and wait for the others to join them. This fell neatly into that category.

Fíli was still silently distraught.

In none of the scenarios, not one, had they ever implied that Fíli and Kíli would be separated.

Balin sighed, watching the prince clutching the bow. This was something Fíli did not know how to reconcile. They had fought together in Goblintown. They had charged Azog together. They had been a duo of mischief and accomplishment from the time Kíli could toddle along in Fili’s footsteps.

Even during the darkest times, when there were attempts on the boys lives, they never —

“Oy.”

Balin startled at the sharp flick on his ear.

“Thank you. _Comebacktome_ Balin. _Youwanderedoffinyourhead. Youhavetostayfocused. Orangry. Orhighonadrenaline. Otherwiseyoureuselessinhere. Becausethisis_ Mirkwood.”

The lass snapped at him, hand held up to flick him a second time, and the reprimand obvious in her tone. She was right. The forest was trying to snare them once more. Balin shook his head violently.

“Thank you Freya. Oh my, that’s why Fíli isn’t speaking isn’t it?”

She looked over and sighed.

Balin walked with her, and grew more worried when Fíli had no reaction at first. She snapped her fingers in his face, and got no response. The she snatched the bow out of his hands.

It— well, it did succeed in breaking the glazed look from Fili’s eyes. And Frey ducked fast enough that there was no harm done when Fíli swung a fist. He looked immediately guilty as the last of the haze dissipated in his face.

“ _Donenow? Greatfabulous. Veryrude. Youtwatsareruiningmyday. Justsayin. Werebackoncanon! Sortaatleastandyouarentplayingalong_. Fíli. You and Balin and Bofur and Bombur and I. We go to words Thr—Fíli talk with Thranduil. _Thenafterthetalking_. Fourteen? Fourteen go to Erebor. Yes?”

“Frey, it is not that simple.”

“We cannot go to the elves and be captured ourselves.”

“Talk with elves.”

“Thranduil will not just let them go. And as you said, Thranduil and Thorin will talk to each other, and little good will come of that.”

“Thranduil wants …. _shitwhatstheword_ … rocks?” She stumbled on a phrase, and fumbled the exuberance of her declaration. “ _Shitfuckdamn_. _Sorryaboutthat_ Ori. _Didyouteachmethisword_? Oh  durinultarg  _thegemsaremoviecanon_.”

Balin and Fíli both jumped at the khuzdul. Not that it didn’t make sense she would start repeating everything she heard. Balin had heard that story about Beorn’s from his brother.

“ _Okaybutifthegemsareathing_ Balin _willknowright_? _Letsassume_. Balin?”

They both turned at the serious tone.

“Thranduil wants rocks. _AndIneedthenameforwhite. AndIhopeitworks. Becausethenameofthatplaceisntcoming. Soexamples_. Brown?” She pointed to a clean corner of Fili’s coat. “Black?” She pointed to the more prevalent black stains. Then she pointed to Balin’s beard.

“White.” Fíli filled in for her, catching her meaning faster than Balin.

“White? yes. Thranduil wants white rocks. Thror? White rocks for Thranduil? Nooooooo Mwahaha. No white rocks for Thranduil. Thranduil go with no white rocks.” Balin glanced sideways and saw the same suppressed mirth. Lost and endangered and hunted, and the lass had just flailed about and done impressions.

“Balin, did that recall anything for you? Rocks is probably all she has for gems or jewels. But if there was an agreement between King Thror and Thranduil—“ Fíli cut off when Balin inadvertently gasped.

“The white gems of Lasgalen.”

“Lasgalen! Yes! _YESThankyouPeter_! _Thankyousomuch_. _Or_ Mahal _orwhoeverthankyou_. _Thisiscanonhere_. Lasgalen for Thranduil.”

“Yes Freya. Thranduil would want those. You believe he will consider exchanging the others for them?”

No. that was too complex for her. Fíli tried instead, in simpler language, with excessive gesturing. Frey watched, then rambled back at him, flapping her hands. They were at it for several minutes, and Balin caught little of it. Most of it wasn’t words, just gestures and sound references. And somehow they were communicating. Not smoothly, not easily, but they were understanding each other. In the end, she nodded slowly, and reiterated everything.

“Fíli talk with Thranduil. Fourteen go Erebor. Smaug dead. White Gems for Thranduil.”

“Oh. Hmm”

“Fíli?” Balin pressed.

“She thinks I need to be the one to arrange a trade since Thorin has a temper. Their release for the return of these gems after the completion of the quest. Thorin won’t agree to the trade, so she wants us to find the elves, and for me to negotiate. Frey thinks that Thranduil will also give us aid if we are on good terms, which will likewise help our status with the lakemen.”

Balin gaped.

Fíli shrugged, as if he hadn’t just pulled nuanced politics out of a puppet show.

“It’s not _that_ hard when she tries.”

Well aware he was giving the prince the same look Kíli had recently, Balin forced himself not to comment.

“So how shall we proceed?” He asked in a carefully formal tone. “Are we going to try and find an elf to take us to their king?”

“I imagine they’ll find us if we follow where they took the others.”

They found Bombur and Bofur, who were happy to report that there was no sign of injury amongst the rest of the company. It was still possible that they were, but almost certainly nothing serious, and with Freya’s ongoing insistence that they were fine, that Bilbo was with them, and the elves had not harmed them either, they all seemed a bit lighter.

Not that the forest was any more pleasant, but as they tromped over brush and rock, they were able to keep themselves present with only occasional reminders.

It was all going well.

But, as seemed to be a theme in Balin’s life, that was always the moment that things went wrong.

Frey stopped walking abruptly, head quirked, looking bewildered, and staring into the murk of the distant trees.

Leaves crunched.

A branch snapped.

There was a low curse in black speech nearby.

Fíli gave a signal, and they all moved.

Bombur dropped into a hollow, pulling a snarl of branches and webs over to better hide himself. Bofur slid beneath a log, mattock at the ready. Balin followed Bofur’s example, and ducked behind a broken stone, peeking around the side for whatever was coming. Fíli snagged Frey with an expedient hand over her mouth, hauling her behind a trunk with fallen branches further blocking them from sight.

Two orcs appeared a moment later. Common orcs, not from Gundabad, but they had the look of scouts.

Balin had to duck wholly behind his rock, and shifted his grip on the hilt of his sword. Kíli would be a blessing just now. His bow was less useful on its own.

“Khozdai.”

Balin did not know what the orcs were doing, but he knew that word. He had been the one to teach black speech to most of the Durins after all.

They were still being hunted.

“Nuzdid. Narg rishi nast.” 

“Shul hakht shug. Nashi gun."

Mahal have mercy on them.

This changed things.

And not for the better.

They should have known that Azog would not stop hunting them. They should have known that a forest so fallen into darkness would have worse things infesting it than spiders. They should have thought of this, but, within the quagmire of the forest’s spell, they had not looked beyond the immediate threats.

Thorin and Kíli at least were safe with the elves. Balin grimaced. It was an easy change to think of them as being kept safe rather than kept captive.

He risked a short glance. One orc was kneeling, sniffing; the other had a cudgel and sickle blade casually in hand.

Two would be no contest, if Balin and the others could align their attack. Scouts had to be killed quickly and quietly.

Yet, if someone had to take that first step on the promise the others would come along, there was likely to be a bloody ending to their story. It would go better with a dual attack.

“Sha murg.”

“Arg daka ash?”

Balin wished he could see Fíli, but the tree the lad had chosen was doing its job too well.  “Dakami arg khozdai.” 

Yes. This wasn’t going to go well. The line of Ur did not speak orcish as far as he knew. Fíli did, but, if there was any mercy, and if any of Balin’s lecture on necessary risks had stuck in the lad’s head, he would stay hidden. At least until Balin had distracted the enemies.

There was a flash of something in the air.

A crash in the foliage many steps away from them.

A distraction tactic and a cue, all in one.  

Heart pounding, expecting the rest of the orcs to arrive at any moment, he moved from his cover.

Fíli and Frey had moved at the same time.

The orcs had nearly been atop them, and Balin had a distance to cover, so he watched as the pair moved through some kind of plan.

Freya stabbed a blade into one of their bare thighs, and left if there, already fleeing from the enraged snarl and swinging sword. Fíli was just behind her. His twin blades arced and blocked the orc’s pathetic strike. As he took off its head on the return slash, Freya reached the second.

She dodged clumsily, swinging the hammer in both hands. It caught the orc in the knee, dropping it to the ground with a piercing shriek. Fíli silenced it with a blade in the throat.

Balin reclaimed the knife from the orc’s leg as Bofur and Bombur joined them, staring warily into the surroundings. With a smirk, he held out the blade to Fíli, it was his after all. He accepted it without looking, slapping it back into Freya’s hand, still without looking away from her face.

She was glaring back at him.

Yes, the next time they had a quiet, safe moment, just as soon as they found the others, Balin was going to open another purse with Gloin.

“You idiot.” Fili started, in a tone that was less a reprimand than the words, “You were supposed to go second not first.” He held up two fingers. She grinned unrepentantly. “That was not safe.”

She knew that word and frowned. “Fili is safe.”

“I know how to use a weapon. I can actually defend myself.”

She didn’t understand him, but the general impression must have gotten through. Frey flicked him in the forehead and snapped, “And you are Durin.”

“And you can foretell the future of this quest.”

“Durin.” Her tone was final.

Balin was inclined to agree with her, and was already taking notes on Fili’s next lecture on self preservation.

“Frey,” Fili continued, softer, “you didn’t talk about this.”

“I not see this. _Theyshouldntbehereyet_. _Idontknowwhytheyare_.” All of the playful mirth slipped from her eyes, and she clutched her weapons tighter.

There was a long quiet as the four dwarves exchanged confused glances. The lass could predict the coming and going of deer, rainstorms, goblin traps, and the miscellaneous vagaries of gravity, this critical turn seemed to be something she should know about.

They all snapped to attention at the sound of a horn.

Balin’s eyes shut.

Orcish.

The pair had killed the scouts fast, but not silently.

A moment later, they could hear the faint sounds of their enemies moving. By the sound, it was many, and from many sides. Including the direction their companions had been taken.

“Elves. Please elves? Elves are safe, Fíli.” Frey said quickly, “Elves are dead orcs. We go to elves. Fíli talk with Thranduil. Fourteen are safe.”

A second horn sounded, certainly from the direction of the elves this time.

“We won’t make it lad.” Balin added. “If the elves were about we’d have heard their horns by now.”

“We need to get to the others.”

“We need to stay alive.”

“Balin—“

“Rayad.” 

“Rukhâs bin’amad faslaki.” Fíli growled, dropping one blade back into its sheath on his back and gesturing. “We have not heard any sign of orcs from that direction, yes?”

“Oh aye, nothing from where the spiders fled to.” Bofur replied with a macabre humor, “Just lemme get a bit of their insides off me mattock before we start all that up again.”

Balin nodded an agreement to Fili’s proposition.

“No. Fíli. We go for elves. Thorin. Bilbo. Kíli. Kíli!” She was pointing down the path with his knife.  Fíli shook his head.

“Orcs. Azog.”

Balin expected her to protest, or throw a fit that would bring their new hunters down on them. Her mouth opened like it was about to start. He did not expect her to deflate in resignation.

“ _Yeahokay. Leastthiskeepsmeawayfromthering. Andactuallyitsgonnabe_ Bolg.” She sighed. “ _Wellthiswasfun. ForacouplehoursIthoughtshitmightworkout. Iknewwhatwashappening. Canthavethatcanwe?_ We go?”

Everyone looked to Fíli.

The prince checked them all over, looking for injuries, verifying their safety as he had been trained to do, then nodded.

And once again, for what felt like the hundredth time since leaving Ered Luin, Balin followed the line of Durin as they were hunted by the enemy.

 

* * *

 

It could be worse.

That was the thing Kíli was holding onto. They could have been eaten by spiders. They could have been killed on sight. The whole bloody company could have been caught and killed by Azog on that cliff. He could have died before he reached the Carrock.

It could be much much worse than being locked in an elvish prison cell not knowing where his brother was.

If he was even alive.

After all, he could _know_ that his brother was dead.

Bilbo had come by, since the hobbit was apparently able to become invisible, and was using it to sneak around an elvish kingdom and nick snacks from the kitchen rather than sneaking out of said kingdom to find and help the missing members of the company. Kíli hit the wall again.

But yes. Bilbo had come by, asked how he was doing, and delivered a message from Thorin. They were awfully confident that the others were together, and well. They were convinced that they were in better circumstances than those currently in prison.

Kíli wasn’t sure about that.

They had been low on food, very low on water, and wandering lost through an accursed forest. That had been before they had been attacked by a small army of spiders.

So no, Kíli was not feeling exceptionally confident.

He had been in the blasted cell for four days, and had eaten the delivered food out of habit more than hunger. Kíli was treated warily by the guards, ever since they had searched him for other weapons and he had tried to break the elf’s wrist. A trio of them had put a stop to that, but the elf he had grabbed walked away rubbing at his wrist gingerly.

Small consolation.

Since he was considered to be a bit dangerous, he was being treated more harshly, and watched more closely.

The red haired elf came by every day and watched him. Fine. That was her decision, since Kíli was starting to think she was the warden. It didn’t matter. Maybe, possibly, if his brother had been nearby, and Kíli had confirmation that no one he cared about was hanging drained of life from a spider’s web he would have paid attention to the fact that she was easily the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, despite being far too tall, and, well, an elf.

That wasn’t the case.

So Kíli scowled at her when she returned again to hover outside the door of his cell.

She just stood there, awkwardly observing as he paced.

Usually she went away after a few minutes of this.

Which would leave Kíli to sit and panic and fuss and worry, and hit the wall until his hand throbbed, and do whatever possible to keep himself from thinking about the forest. Bilbo was working on an escape plan, much good may it do them. Escaping was one matter, and yes, it was important, but there were four of them, no, five of them, in the woods still.

Balin was with them.

That was good.

Assuming they were all together, Balin would be there to help settle his brother down. Kíli couldn’t imagine that Fíli was handling this much better than he was. Heir and elder brother he may have been, but there was a history of Fíli overreacting to Kíli being under threat. No. Balin would remind Fíli that attempting to confront the elves would be ill advised.

Balin would make him see reason.

Balin would make sure that Fíli kept to the agreements they had all made while planning this quest.

Balin would make sure Fíli and the others got out of the forest in one piece.

There was no reason for Kíli to be so shaken.

Except that it was Fíli.

Kíli stopped his pacing, slumped against the wall and clutched sore hands into fists. Some of the others were in cells together. Some of them were close enough they could shout to each other. Bilbo had told him that. Just like Bilbo had told him that Thorin had been obstinate, offensive, and was now locked in a cell well away from the others, the jailers not so much as speaking to him.

Isolation didn’t suit Kíli any better than it did his uncle.

“You are troubled.” the elf’s voice was smooth, but Kíli jumped like she had shouted.

She had not spoken in front of him in westron since the day they were captured. He turned, and glared.

“Of course I am, I’m in a cell and, I don’t know where—”  At least he managed to cut off before he actually explained that there were more dwarves in the area.

She watched him for a few minutes until Kíli grew uncomfortable and fidgeted.

“It must be difficult for you to be separated.” She said gently, lowering herself to a stone step. There was certainly no way she could know, and Kili’s glare intensified. “To know that you are here and that a part of you is elsewhere, possibly in danger.”

She paused, waiting until Kíli met her eyes.

“I would feel the same if my _bow_ were left behind.”

Kíli blinked.

Swallowed.

Tried not to go hysterical that this was happening.

But yes, the elf was looking at him too intently to have made a mistake. She knew and she wasn’t asking for more.

“I did not think to send a scout back for your bow until yesterday.” she continued lightly, “After the reports from the guards and my own observation, it was clear that it was important to you, and that you might be calmer if it was found. They returned without it I must admit. Perhaps they simply overlooked it?”

How was he supposed to answer this? He couldn’t tell her about Fíli. Not just because uncle would be furious, not just because of the plans in place, but because he knew the elves would happily capture the rest, and then all hope for Erebor would be lost.

So Kíli talked obliquely about his bow.

“It’s a very fine weapon.”

“It brought down many of the spiders. I watched you with it as we approached. You are very talented with it. It is unusual among your kind is it not, to be trained in archery?”

“Not especially.” Kíli had to fight the need to curse, no longer sure if they were speaking of lost weaponry or lost kin. She had not changed her tone, but the question had not made sense if he had understood her at the start.

Nor did the next.

“You found the best targets on the creatures quite quickly it seems. We train warriors to aim for the juncture below the head as well, but learned that through long experience. I do not believe you had spent so long as we hunting the creatures.”

Kíli was sure his face was ridiculous, half a scowl, have twisted in confusion. She was irritating.

Then the blonde warrior he’d seen in the forest appeared, nearly silent, and she looked up cooly. “My lord Legolas.”

“Tauriel. Do you think to learn tactics from a dwarf?”

Tauriel answered in Sindarin, and by the half-laugh it evoked, it had been a private joke between them. She declined whatever he asked her after, and Legolas departed. A pointed look kept Kíli silent for a long time.

“My apologies.” She said, entirely serious.

“For what?”

“For not finding your bow.” Oh, fine then, and they were back to the strangely intense coded phrases again. “I intend to try to find it for you when my company next hunts.”

“Don’t. Uh, er, I mean, you don’t need to do that.”

“Master Dwarf, I think it is important that I find it.”

“Don’t. Don’t look. My bow will be fine.”

It didn’t matter why the elf was acting helpful and concerned. It didn’t matter that Kíli couldn’t sleep for worrying. Fíli needed to remain free.

A little flicker of something passed through her eyes, as if she was unsure how to proceed from their current location. Kíli wasn’t sure either. Tauriel didn’t seem to have any cruel intent, but Kíli had heard too many lectures about deception and the ways to subtly interrogate a prisoner to trust her.

It could easily be a ploy to get Kíli talking, and there could be half a dozen elves around the corner, listening, taking notes.

But he wanted to trust her. She just didn't feel so horrid as the rest of the elves. They all felt just a bit like the forest had, sick below the surface. Not much, but just a hint of something that kept him from believing them at all.

Tauriel didn’t.

But she was still an elf.

“The forest is not as it once was master dwarf.”

Even if she did try to speak respectfully.

“It is not safe as it once was. There are dangers.”

“We did notice that. Giant spiders, that your kind have allowed to breed and spread and attack travelers.”

“The forest path is protected.”

Kíli thought back to that first attack, and scoffed, “We were attacked while on the path, and driven off of it.” Tauriel sat up straighter, alarmed and irate. Not at him, not at the dwarves. At whom, Kíli could not guess, but something started smoldering inside her when he spoke. “What? Did you think we just decided to wander off into the creepy woods towards the giant spider webs and the ominous noises?”

“The path is protected.”

The revelation had thrown her. He whole face twisted on a thought, while concern rattled her previously composed mien. Kíli should have tried to show her some sympathy.

He didn’t.

“Your forest was poisoning us. We didn’t know where we were or what we were doing most of the time. We were fighting and confused and dangerous. Then we were attacked. Then we were lost, running out of food and water. Then we were attacked again. Then we were taken prisoner by a group of iskêb faslk binkurdu who took offense at our trying to stay alive. And now I’m locked in here while —“

“Your bow. Yes.” She had risen, overly still, reminding Kíli of nothing so much as a startled fawn.

Kíli let himself finally sit, leaning against the door with his back turned. He wasn’t going to talk to her anymore. That was a far better plan than letting his mouth have an opportunity to make things worse.

He could hear her shifting awkwardly.

“Master dwarf, your bow is quite effective against the spiders infesting the forest.” He knew that. In either meaning it was true. “Is it equally so against other threats? Is it equally capable against orcs and wargs?”

Without thought, he had turned, stood, and grabbed the bars.

Her voice had been hesitant, and her face betrayed unspoken secrets.

Whatever he meant to say was cut off by a call from one of the other elves. Tauriel answered curtly and nodded to them.

“If anything is found by my scouts on the next hunt, I will tell you of it.”

She was gone before Kíli’s mind had caught up, and he had no guess what he could say to bring her back and make her tell him more.

When the guards brought him a bowl of food and bread later, he wasn’t able to eat it. Kíli stayed by the bars, waiting for her to return until late in the night when the stew was cold and the bread was hard.

He fell into a fitful sleep, still leaning into the door, chased by fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't say that I adore you all enough. For a fic I thought no one would read, I am always astounded at the response. It is absolutely the reason I continue to write these very long chapters, and why I remain so excited about future events. So. I adore you, and I hope this chapter made you all as happy as it made me. --Strife
> 
>  **Edit January 31st:** I swear this isn't abandoned, but I moved 3000 miles and have been working multiple jobs. 18 is coming. Its more than half written now. Ive just been flaky and distracted by RL and my original novel. 
> 
> **Khuzdul**  
>  Imrid d’ursul, mibilkhags : die in fire, tree fucker  
> kakhaf ilbêbzars : tree licking ass  
> ulbabzars : tree licker  
> Rayad : Heir  
> Rukhâs bin’amad faslaki : motherless fucking orcs  
> iskêb faslk binkurdu : heartless prancing dicks
> 
>  **Orcish**  
>  Khozdai : Dwarves  
> Nuzdid : Track them  
> Narg rishi nast : I Want to taste their fear  
> Shul hakht shug : Stop talking filth  
> Nashi gun : They’re close by  
> Sha murg.” not many  
> Arg daka ash? : Others kill some?  
> Dakami arg khozdai : we kill the rest


	18. Boredom, Chaos and Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things could be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what happens when you move 3000 miles? You don't get to write. That's what happens. but then you get a few days off work and then you write 11k word chapters. Oof. Yesh. This happened. 
> 
> If you're reading this. Thanks for sticking with me as RL causes trouble.

“Oh, son of a bitch... Spiders.”

Because that was what they needed right now. More spiders. That was just the thing to round out their little side quest from hell. They were already exhausted and hungry and grumpy and had been hoping to find a place to hide and sleep and instead, they got spiders.

Lovely.

She aborted her hissed temper tantrum, stopped gaping at the snarl of webs full of monsters in the trees above her, and adjusted the hammer she was pretty sure hadn’t been set down in days. If she was lucky, very lucky, they hadn’t heard her.

Though, the last time she had been lucky had been back at Beorn’s house, so she wasn’t overly hopeful. Fíli was going to be pretty pissed if she got herself chased by spiders.

Again.

Speaking of whom, the dwarves needed to come find her. Preferably before she got munched on or chased, or had to try to fight off the eight, no wait, nine, ten, _eleven_ spiders currently within sight. True, she shouldn’t have gone stomping off without one of the others.  Not her best decision. But, they had been whining and petulant and she had seriously been considering finding out whether dwarves were tough all over by kicking Bofur in the balls until he fell over. It was going to be like a tootsie pop commercial.

The miner stared at her most of the time when they were stationary, and it was getting under her skin.

Of course, it wasn’t as if they had spent more than a total of ten hours stationary in the last three days, but he glared when he could while they were on the move too.  

He was persistent that way.

Ever since they had lost the others, ever since the orcs had shown up and they had heard that horn, it had simply been the five of them hauling ass as quietly and stealthily as possible. These was dwarves, so their success in that had been minimal. It had just been them fleeing, and her having no idea what was going on except that the odds of them surviving this were dwindling at an alarming rate.

In Bofur’s defense, she had lost her temper on the second day and smacked Balin in the side of the head when he had gotten distracted by a bit of moss thanks to Mirkwood’s muddling effects.

They hadn’t seen the orcs since that first day, but they had never stopped hearing them. They were being hunted -- occupational hazard of being a Durin, that -- and the orcs probably were doing better in the forest than they were.

That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that the spiders hadn’t turned to her yet, so apparently they hadn’t heard her constant cursing. Which meant she could sneak away and locate the dwarves and they could retreat from this direction and go somewhere unoccupied to curl up and nap for a few hours before they continued their inevitable ongoing retreat.

Frey got two steps before she heard an inquisitive shout from Balin.

Behind her, they were trying to find her. Sweet of them.

In front of her, all of the spiders turned to the sound, saw her, and clicked and hissed in delight.

Fantastic.

If this hadn’t been her fourth time fighting the damn things since entering the forest, she might have run. Fortunately, she had plum run out of fucks to give, and stood her ground.

“Spiders!” She shouted quickly to the rest, not daring to be too loud because the orcs were still around, and pulled Fíli’s knife from the sheath.

Apparently they were going to fight spiders today.

She danced backwards from the ones approaching her, unable to land a blow, unable to do much more than duck when they tried to grab her.

They weren’t all that fast. Thank god.

As they corralled her against a tree and flanked around, dodging her hammer, the dwarves decided to make an entrance.

Fíli was the first to get to her since his youth allowed him bound through the forest at a higher speed. He cut through the spider nearest to her, checked her health in a glance, and nodded. Frey nodded in reply, stepped behind him, and guarded his back as they moved from the nest and towards the others.

It was a spiraling dance they enacted. It left puddles of goop behind them as Fíli slashed open spiders with more vehemence than in their last encounter.

But all that dashing about and slaughtering meant he wasn’t quite predictable. Frey constantly had to adjust, shifting and countering to keep his back guarded from the errant beasts that tried to sneak up on them. If she hadn’t, he’d have ended up facing her long before. That would be less than helpful. Also. They would probably die.

Spiders were plenty intimidating if they were being faced down by a single hobbit. They were a challenge when the dwarves were bleary and drugged by the forest’s spell. They would be an issue if she was alone.

Against four furious, frustrated dwarves, and a displaced human, the outcome was inevitable.

Frey slumped on the ground against an obliging corpse as Bombur killed the last of them with a cookpot. She didn’t giggle at the sight, but it was a near thing.  

“Not gonnabeableta camp here.” Bofur grumbled at her. She flipped him off. Balin had been the one to tip off the spiders. She had been doing just fine sneaking out of sight.

She ignored them as they bickered for a moment, deciding which direction to run next. They did this sometimes. Often. Constantly.

This was her life now.

Running.

Killing things.

And ignoring the bickering of dwarves.

Which, if she was being honest, that had been her life ever since she had left Bree. The killed things used to be a bit more fluffy and delicious and a bit less murderous, but that was really the only difference.

“You are fine?”

Well, and the fact that some of the dwarves were nicer to her now.

“Yes,” She nodded at Fíli, accustomed to the question after every skirmish and event and flight and bloody loud noise by now. Just like she was used to the fact that he would ignore what she said and check her for any injuries. It probably would have set her blushing if he didn’t do it to everyone else. Going by Balin’s proud smile, it was expected of him.

“Do not _wanderaway_ again.” She frowned and he began miming. “Walk? We are here. You walk? You see spiders. That is wander. Do not wander again.”

Fíli, of all of them, was the most troubled by their situation. Between Kíli and Thorin and his sudden position as company leader, he looked like he was ready to pull his own braids off from anxiety. Throw into the mix the forest’s tendency to make them all terse, confused and, bitchy, and they were certain to blow at some point.

Frey had alleviated a bit of their tension by opening the last elvish pack on her leg yesterday. The pack that she had guarded so fervently since Rivendell. Like the bags she had given them on the Carrock, it was filled with lembas, and would keep them going at least a while longer.

Not that they were going to see the other side of the forest. That was just a pipe dream at this point. That was preposterous. That was folly.

She had a better chance of marching the ring to Mordor dressed in a tutu and a boa than she did of seeing Laketown.

So it was hard for her to give a damn about anything. They were all going to die. Horribly, most likely.

They were being hunted by the orcs early, and for the life of her, she couldn’t figured out why.

Not that it stopped them from thinking she knew. Actually, they thought she knew everything. The orcs, the spiders, the goblins. She’d spent two months trailing after them like a querulous toddler and now that she was as clueless as the rest of them, they were taking what she said as gospel.

Middle Earth clearly had a sense of irony.

“Frey?”

She snapped out of her mental perambulation at his voice.

“Fíli?”

“We need to run.”

“Of course we fucking do. That’s all anyone ever does in Middle Earth. It’s no wonder everyone is thin and attractive, you’re underfed and doing constant wind sprints. It’s bloody inevitable. By the way, I hate wind sprints. Always did. They’re awful. Also, I hate you. Everyone else too, but at the moment, mostly you Fíli. You’re the face of this hell. So I hate you. You and wind sprints.” He waited while she whined, then rose, extending a hand to hoist her from the ground. “We run?”

A little flicker of a smirk tried to happen on Fíli’s face before he remembered he was in command and smothered it.

“Run.”

They did.

 

* * *

 

Maybe he could just run for it.

Maybe if he faked an illness he could get the guards to open the door, then he could get out and just run like anything. Then he could get out of this accursed prison and go find his damnable lost brother.

Instead.

Kíli paced.

Back and forth, one step after the next, one side of the cell to the other, worrying every step of the way that Tauriel would return and tell him that she had found his brother’s body. Terrified that his brother was going to die because Kíli wasn’t there to protect him.

He was the archer.

He was the distant force, the act of protection. He was the one that struck down enemies that thought to sneak up on his kin. Now, instead of doing that, he was in a prison cell. Pacing.

Freya would try.

That was obvious. She would try to protect the others if she was with them. And she was stubborn enough, she probably was. She would even try to protect Bofur; Kíli would bet his beard on that. That is. If they weren’t all dead already.

Problem with that fantasy was, she was awful at it.

Good intentions made for a lovely story, and worked out just fine in a story told to a passel of dwarflings, but she _really_ wasn’t a fighter.

He and Fíli had discussed this at length. Well, they had discussed her imminent gory demise and how they might forestall it happening. However. It was inevitable.

They had both been raised to look at a person’s skills and determine their potential survival. It was a grim relic of the years spent wandering. Thorin had taught them with grief written on his face, but he had taught them all the same.

Ori made the Durins twitch for the same reason. Although, Kíli had to admit that Ori was doing a lot better since the Misty Mountains. Not great. Still likely to die.

Kíli shook himself. It did no good to dwell on the chance. He had to find a way to get out of the prison. Bilbo was sneaking about, trying to find something, but there was no guarantee. There was no certainty, and Kíli had to find his brother.

“Your bow has killed more spiders.”

He whipped his head over his shoulder, staring at the elven captain, enraged and grateful all at once.

He hated that he had no choice except to trust her.

He hated more that she was so endlessly compassionate to him. Skittish and awkward, but trying to console him.

Also. Trying to find and capture the others. And the reason Bilbo looked ever more stressed.

“You’re sure?”

“They were certainly dead.”

“I meant--”

“That too. I am certain. I saw the trail myself on patrol.”

“So?”

“Whoever killed the spiders did so easily. There was no sign of injury. Nearly a dozen spiders were slain. It was an admirable task.” She watched him softly. An entreaty. An offer. A kindness.

He really hated that he wanted to accept that offer.

“Where?” He half snarled.

“South of the path, some ten--” She cut off abruptly, smacked the hilt of her blade against the bars, and glared at him as if he was being unruly.

A moment later she walked away, and within a breath, another elf arrived with the evening’s meal.

South of the path.

South.

Kíli ate the stew quickly hearing the word repeat, then pitched the bowl across the cell, savoring the clatter as it echoed.

Fíli was going the wrong direction.

 

* * *

 

Bofur dropped out of the tree he had just scaled, looked at them all with a wry grimace, and pointed behind them.

“Damn.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Durinul zantul’abban.”

“You’re certain?”

“Aye. _Wereheadingoffsouth_. _Mountainsoff_ up that direction. Don’t _think_ we can go _sayingweredoing_ well _nowcan_ we, Bom?”

“No, _dontsuppose_ we can Bof.”

Of course they were running the wrong direction.

Just.

Naturally.

Frey snapped the branch she had been fiddling with in half and chucked the pieces into the undergrowth. Now they had to go back through the orcs. The same orcs that they had heard  each time they rested. The orcs that, in all probability, knew exactly where they were and were playing with them for funsies.

Those orcs.

But, being as the five of them were all directionally-challenged planning-incompetent idiots, they had no other choice. They couldn’t just keep running south. Even if they weren’t trying to get to Erebor, there was the small matter of Sauron doing his little necromancer cosplay off to the south.

Frey didn’t want any part of it.

That was Gandalf’s game. And Galadriel’s.

She was out of her depth with a forest and a dragon. She was out of her depth and bewildered and irate.

They had hoped to hear good news and to make camp here beneath the ginormous tree that Bofur had managed to scurry up, so they had been half reclining at its base. Fíli had been standing a few steps apart, doing his best impression of his uncle’s serious brooding scowl. It was his most common look lately. He was clinging to it like a security blanket.

She missed the smirking jackass that had been such a pain.

They needed to stop. They needed to breathe.

So, the faint clatter of marching orcs wasn’t appreciated.

“We _haveto_ run.” Fíli said, tacitly apologizing as he ordered them to get ready.

“Where?” Frey threw back. He gestured vaguely. “South? South is bad, Fíli. Much. Bad. You don’t even know.”

He frowned, clearly weighing what he knew with what he thought she knew.

“There are orcs _chasingbehind_ us.”

“I know there are orcs, thanks, I recall them. Ugly bastards, running ahead of schedule. Trying to murder us all. Orcs. I’ve got that. We still can’t go south. South is bad.”

“Where?”

She pointed.

“Erebor.”

“There are orcs.”

“There’s always orcs with your people,” she grumped, “Erebor. We go to Erebor.”

Fíli seemed likely to whine some more, to protest, and Frey was contemplating smacking him until he agreed with her; it was Balin that stopped them bickering. He stepped to their conversation, and nodded to Frey.

“Erebor, you say?” His tone was onerous. He was implying a great deal more than the simple phrase made plain.

He was implying her foresight.

Again.

She really ought to nip that in the bud. Flower at this point. Whatever. She needed to stop them from thinking that she could just predict any and everything. She needed to get through to them the important things and the sovereign fact that whenever things changed she became exponentially more useless.

Except Fíli wanted them to go south.

Which was dumber than usual.

Cutting off their faith would have to wait another day or two.

“Erebor.” She replied with finality.

Fíli acceded.

Behind Balin, even Bofur was listening. He was scowling at her, but he was listening like she was spouting the newest testament.

“How? The orcs…” Fíli motioned for her to explain some grand plan. It was an open sweep of his hand that, by virtue of occurring in the middle of a forest, meant he gestured toward a tree.

And that was as good a plan as any.

Frey smirked, “We go up trees.”

 

* * *

 

“And then climb a tree and look around and find them!”

“Oh, is that what you expect me to do Kíli? Pop outside of the inescapable prison, have a look about and come back with your brother and the others walking behind me neat as you please? You’re less helpful than your fool uncle. He wants me to snatch the keys off that elf captain and just walk you all out the front door. Never mind the guards. Never mind the gates. Never mind anything. But don’t worry, I’ve gotten you out of a few spots of trouble before, so this shouldn’t be a problem?”

Kill stared at the hobbit, abashed.

“I know that you’re trying, Bilbo.”

The hobbit deflated, sinking against the bars and tossing his head in tired frustration.

“I have to find a way though, don’t I? There really isn’t anyone else. Gandalf isn’t coming back, and the others are Eru-knows-where and I….” he winced, “I’m sorry for that.”

“Balin is out there too.”

“I’m sure they’ve all found each other.”

Kíli held back the comment on his tongue.

“Do you have anything yet?” He asked instead.

“I found your weapons?” Bilbo offered. When Kíli didn’t react, the hobbit huffed, “That cheered up Dwalin, Nori, Thorin, Bifur and Glóin just fine.”

"My bow got left in the forest."

“You can get a new bow, Kíli.”

“No, I can’t.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh cock-sucking hell. This buggering fucking mud.”

Yeah. Fine, when the rain had started they had all been happy about it. After she drank it without dying that is. Fíli had smacked her in the back of the head for that. Tough cookies. She was thirsty. They all were. Lembas wasn’t exactly the most moist and refreshing of snacks, and it was definitely the only thing they had left to eat.

Yes, Fine. When the rain slowed them down they were concerned that the orcs would catch up with them only to realize that they had gained some distance on their pursuers in the three day downpour.

Fine. Yes. Okay. It probably was, overall, a good thing that the skies had opened and flooded them like the entire ocean was trying to go on a vacation in the damned forest.

However, as Freya and Bombur untangled themselves from the branches and each other at the bottom of the ravine, neither was a fan of the rain. The edge had been turned to tremulous mud, which had given out beneath them, and dropped them into a muddy, scraggly, not in any way cushioned, ravine.

Bombur was indestructible. Frey knew that. So she was just worrying about whether the twinge in her leg was serious or not.

Probably wasn’t.

Hopefully wasn’t.

Keeping up with the dwarves was hard enough already.

“We’re fine, Bofur!” Bombur said with a gesture.

The other three were on the ledge above them, and relaxed visibly at the announcement.

“Freya?” Fíli added.

“I am fine.” She was getting very good at that sentence. True or not.

Then Frey ignored them -- like she often did -- as they sorted out what sounded like a way to get the pair of them back up the slick steep wall, and away from the rising level of the stream at fault for the ravine. Fear of flash flood was going to be tricky to convey. Easier not to try, and she wasn’t in the mood to bother with anything more complicated that taking a nap.

She was covered in mud.

They both were.

And there was a stream next to them taunting her with its existence.

Maybe it wasn’t all the streams in Mirkwood that were magical nap-inducing bastards, but she wasn’t about to risk having to carry their corpulent compatriot. Even if the idea of being carried was rather appealing.

“Freya?”

She turned away from her temptation, and nodded at Bombur to climb up the rope first.

Fíli had luckily kept that on his pack through the myriad fights and chases.

A minute later the rope dropped next to her, and she climbed it with a forlorn glance at the closest thing to a bath she was likely to see in the next month.  

Now that the rain had dissipated, she couldn’t even expect a downpour to sluice the muck away. Well. Free mud bath.

Because that was what really mattered at the moment. Good skin.

Mirkwood being known for its delightful healing qualities and soothing nature.

Right.

With the light fading, Fíli ordered them all to camp just back from the edge of the ravine, tucked against several trees, on stable ground. They already knew that there was no hope of getting the wood to light, so only kicked aside the worst of the branches and stones before sinking to the ground.

Fíli passed out lembas, and after handing her mouthful to her, joined her against the tree she had claimed.

“Are you going to yell at me about drinking the rain again?”

He ignored her english whining, “You’re fine? Not hurt?”

“No. Not hurt. Covered in mud like I’ve gone vacationing in some luxe hotel, eating like a damn supermodel, and living through a hell that I must be at fault for but I can’t figure out why, but yeah Fíli. Not hurt. So don’t you worry your pretty head.”

“You are angry.”

“Well spotted smarty pants.”

Fíli got a frankly precious crease between his eyes when he was trying to understand her. She knew he had started to pick up some of the english. Mostly obscenities and pronouns. Not enough to speak it yet, but he occasionally caught the drift of her rants. Speaking to her, he was always meticulous about using simple sentences. He was an idiot and thought she was some faultless speaker of truth and prophecy. He also had been all chivalrous and helpful with keeping her from getting dead.

Both good and bad there.

Because what she needed in the middle of the side quest from hell was the return of a crush.

“Angry, not hurt? Angry at this iklifumun mud?”

“Mud?”

He swept a finger down her arm, pulling off a line of mud; not that it made her any cleaner.

“Mud.”

She didn’t even like the word.

“Yes Fíli. I am angry at iklifumun mud. And at trees. And at spiders. And at orcs. And at, at, at All.”

He swept most of the mud off her nose and cheek where she had face-planted, then started trying to clean the rest of her face.

“Angry at Fíli?”

Oh, that was a very strange question. One that she was almost certainly misinterpreting.

In the real world, she would have known how to respond to that: She would flirt. Possibly pretend she was angry until he bought her a drink. Then there could be lovely naked sexy times.

As it was, she shook her head, leaned into the body of the tree and tried to fall asleep now so she could stay awake during the doubled second watch later with Balin. With the way her body ached and her mind was running in circles on a dozen subjects, she didn't expect to manage it. However, sleep was a precious commodity to them, and added to the fact that they were nearly starving, her body overrode her mind.

She fell into strange dreams of running from orcs that turned into dragons and then into butterflies. She dreamt of her bed and of soaking in a jacuzzi. She dreamt of curling up on the couch and watching crap television, snuggled into someone’s side with their arm tucked around her.

She also dreamt of having to joust against Glorfindel armed with a pool noodle.

The blackness was oppressively dense when she was awoken.

Fíli was rubbing a hand over her shoulder, rousing her, which she allowed reluctantly. Or, it was reluctant until she realized that she was curled halfway into the dwarf. Then she was wide awake, skooching away and muttering apologies without focusing on which language she was using.

In the day, she could have at least judged what was happening by his face. In the dark, there was nothing but words, which neither seemed inclined to use. So she concluded her ramble with with a curt, “I have watch.”

“Ne sazraliya aksut belamê ina ahliti mimadkhatadrân?” He muttered grumpily in khuzdul. Frey started to attempt an answer, but he cut her off, “Watch.”

She heard him shift, probably to fall asleep, and in the dark, she mouthed a tirade at herself.

Not for the first time, she was reminded that her life would be a lot easier if she actually understood what was being said around her, and went to wake Balin.

 

* * *

 

“I regret that I cannot tell you more than that.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it is not.”

Kíli stayed where he had retreated, on the cot that was the only option in the cell. He sat stiffly, brittly. He faced away from the door because he wasn’t going to allow this elf to see his fear. It wasn’t a thing to share. It was his own pain and his own fault, and he wouldn’t let her have it.

“It’s fine. You don’t need to speak to me anymore. You shouldn’t. You aren’t supposed to talk to me. So now you have a reason to stop.” His efforts to sound formal and formidable fell flat. Kíli knew that talking with Tauriel, even when it was just snips of phrases, even when it was stilted and uncomfortable, was the only thing he was holding onto. Bilbo was rarely nearby, and the solitude and uncertainty was eating at him.

It wouldn’t get any better without Tauriel to talk to every day. Sometimes multiple times a day.

“You should not give up hope.”

“I haven’t. I trust him,” he spat back.

Tauriel was silent for long enough that Kíli almost turned to see if she had departed. But her voice was muted when she spoke again in the tense quiet moment, hidden from the rest of the company, secluded from the elves, and shrouded by the early morning hour.

“A brother?”

Damn it.

Kíli was doing nothing but lead the elves closer to the others with these slips. It was doing no good to speak to the elf at all. A little worried voice reminded him though, that if Fíli and the others were caught, and Tauriel believed them to be of value, she would keep them safe.

So he nodded.

“I have no relations. No. I have some. But they are kin by choice not by blood. I cannot fathom how you must ache. You must have faith. He has done well in the forest. The spiders--”

“There are orcs hunting him. And I am trapped here while he is left unguarded.” He spun to throw the words in her face.

“It is not my decision to keep you here. That is the purview of my king.”

Kíli scoffed and shook his head. “But you’re the one with the keys. You might not be the one to make the decision, but you’re standing there talking to me while he’s out in your accursed forest, hunted and in danger, and if you were telling the truth, you could let me out right now.”

“That is not true.”

She was correct, but Kíli wasn’t about to apologize. He hadn’t thought that would work. He had just needed to vent his temper. After he had destroyed a fifth bowl, the elves had stopped giving him dishes at all. He knew better than to hit the wall and injure his hands. So his temper built up to an almost painful level.

Kíli said nothing, just resumed his vigil watching the back of his cell, and counting down until she left and he could succumb to the fear her declaration had provoked.

“Master Dwarf, I told you only what I know. My scouts brought a report of signs of a company of orc changing direction, though they did not find the company itself. They brought a report that the others they had been seeking had vanished. And, a report that the paths had crossed. There is no certainty.”

How else was he to interpret that? How else was he to interpret his brother vanishing in Mirkwood just as the orcs that had been hunting him crossed their course?

Something must have happened to him.

“I believe that if he was lost to you, you would know it. Dwarves are not -- from what I have learned of your kind, you do not often have siblings so near your age. He, that is, if you are who I believe you to be, and you need not confirm such, Master Dwarf, but what I mean to say is, I believe you would know. Do you believe he is dead?”

Tauriel waited for long tense minutes, but Kíli gave her no answer. He didn’t turn back to her, not wanting to reveal the way the elf had just nurtured a tiny shard of hope into something viable. He didn’t want her to know that she had just helped.

She was an elf.

He was a dwarf.

He could not -- should not -- take comfort in her words.

He eventually heard her depart.

Silence reclaimed the air, and the tension grew worse without her there.

“No. I don’t.” He finally whispered, “I don’t believe he is dead.”

 

* * *

 

They’d had a good run.

Not great.

But they’d made it pretty far considering the fact that the damned orcs were bloody early, that they were so hopelessly lost, and that they seemed to think she was omniscient even after she stated as explicitly as she could that she knew nothing. She was Jon Snow. She was useless. She knew this.

They refused to hear it.

There was going to be yelling if they lived through this mess with orcs and whatnot.

The trees had worked at first.

Long enough that now they were being chased toward the north.

So. You know. Progress.

Such as it was.

Frey scooped up the blade from the ground and buried it in the side of the ugly bastard that had just knocked it out of Fíli’s hand. The orc screamed, and she shrieked back at it. That served to turn two others to look at her.

The dwarves took advantage of the distraction and promptly killed them.

Bofur went so far as to shout a thanks to her as he excused the thing’s head from its shoulders. Frey was preoccupied with trying to finish off the orc she’d stabbed, without it managing to return the favor. So, when Fíli yelled her name, she wasn’t sure what the hell he wanted from her. One of his throwing axes buried in the shoulder of the orc she was dancing around, and she finally succeeded in wrenching out the sword.

There wasn’t any dramatic final duel though. The orc had its scimitar in hand despite the gaping wound on its torso. Frey had one of Fiil’s swords and her hammer. Frey was expecting some kind of boss fight. Even just a little one.  

Fíli and Bofur had a different opinion.

Murderlate.

That was the best way to describe what they did to that orc.

It was a bit excessive.

Very effective though.

With the orcs regrouping or organizing or running for backup, and the five of them reunited for a moment, Fíli snapped an order in khuzdul, retook his sword, and they began to run again. It was only after they had put some distance behind them that Frey noticed Fíli was clutching her hand. The next time they stopped running, she was going to have to think about what the hell that meant.

 

* * *

 

Kíli’s life would be easier at present if he had paid attention during Sindarin lessons when he was younger.

Nothing for it though.

He hadn’t.

It had been bad enough that he’d heard about his slight figure from the other dwarves, especially the visitors that seemed to take delight in getting in jabs against the longbeards whenever possible. Kíli hadn’t wanted to give them more ammunition by speaking in an elvish tongue where anyone could hear.

So no, he didn’t pay attention to his Sindarin lessons, and refused to practice it past his schooling.

Now, forty odd years later, it meant that no matter how long Tauriel and the guard spoke outside his door, he had barely more a dozen words he understood. Orch and orchoth. Those were obvious. Anfang. Ungol. Maeth.

It wasn’t enough for him to properly know what was happening.

Maybe Bilbo was slinking nearby.

Maybe he was listening and would appear after the elves left and translate the whole thing. Maybe they knew where Fíli and the others were.

None of that happened though.

They finished their conversation, Tauriel left, and the guard passed him his food.

Bilbo didn’t appear.

Hopefully Bilbo was off finding an escape.

Two weeks had passed in this awful elven prison, and Kíli had long since passed the point where he cared what they had to give up to leave. Bilbo had flat out refused to pass Kíli’s more recent messages to Thorin. His uncle wouldn’t have taken well to the insults that Kíli had thought well hidden in Khuzdul.

Bilbo knew more of it than Kíli had thought.  

And, there may have been a valid point in Bilbo’s retort that, “Unlike some, Thorin hasn’t given up hope that the others are fine.”

Kíli hadn’t given up hope.

He hadn’t.

But he wasn’t facing this with the unshakable determination that was expected from a scion of the line of Durin. In the deepest parts of the night, when he was at his most desolate, he could think of nothing but his failings. Could only imagine having to tell his amad that he had failed to protect his brother. It was then that he would bring out his runestone and trace the vow carved into it. The token was his balm, but lost its efficacy with each day that passed in captivity.

He would sit for hours, unable to sleep, turning it in his hand, and picking at his guilt like a scab.

“What do you have there?”

Kíli flung himself sideways at Tauriel’s gentle interruption.

“My apologies Master Dwarf. I have to be certain it is not a weapon.”

Petulant and scowling, he tucked the stone into his pocket, never letting her see what it was. She bowed her head a moment, and Kíli celebrated his disobedience.

Then she removed the keys from her belt, and reached for the lock.

If Kíli’s mind had been capable of a coherent thought in that moment, he would have expected some form of violence. Men beat prisoners. Orcs and Goblins tortured them. Tauriel swung open the door and scrutinized him.

“Come.”

And that was clearly a trick. The captain of the elvish palace guard wouldn’t simply allow him to walk out of his prison cell.

Yet there she was, standing aside and leaving him a chance to rush past. To escape. To go find his brother. Fortunately, Kíli didn’t give into the impulse to attempt it. The more reasonable part of his mind was aware that it was impossible.

“Come where?” He clipped, pressed against the wall.

“You are not coping well with your confinement, Master Dwarf. I am tasked with the well being of yourself and your companions. If you would rather stay here, I can close this door and leave you to your own tending. But I cannot help but think that a moment away from this might ease your heart.”

Elves weren’t supposed to be kind.

It made it too hard to ignore the way they looked like starlight and nature twined together, barely contained by their physical form.

Elves were supposed to be unfeeling and callous. They were supposed to disregard the other races, hate the dwarves, scowl at their suffering and laugh as they were slain. They were not supposed to hold out an offer that was desperately needed with sincerity and tenderness.

But she was.

And so he obeyed

Kíli went with her on a circuitous path up staircases and sloped halls, steep ladders and narrow spans. She walked behind him, pointing to paths in silence. They ended in the open air, on a secluded balcony, with stars stretched above them, sparkling like the stories his uncle told him of the deepest mines.

They simply stood there, nothing more.

Kíli had not known how badly he had needed to breathe deep and see the world around him. It was an undwarvish instinct he tried to ignore, but he adored the night sky, the stars and the moon. Tauriel had seen that in him. Somehow.

When the first stain of grey light began to taint the night, Tauriel set a hand on his shoulder to lead him back to his cell.

No one saw them. He knew it would not be spoken of by either of them.

“Thank you for trusting me, Master Dwarf, you seem somewhat improved.” she murmured as she turned the key, relocking him in his cell.

“My name is Kíli.”

“And mine is Tauriel.”

 

* * *

 

“Freya.”

Why were they even bothering anymore? They were all humped. Utterly. Entirely. Humped.

She’d done her best, she really and truly had. It didn’t matter, but hey, at least when she died stuck through with an orc spear, she could could know that she deserved a participation ribbon.

The forest loomed around her, tricking her perception and rolling like an ocean wave beneath her feet. Trees bent as if they would tip sideways and crush her. The ground bucked and swayed and tempted her with smooth stones she mistook for the missing path. Shadows became orcs and wargs, nazgul and wraiths.

Even the air around her changed and mutated. Sometimes it was heavy, almost painful to breathe. At others, it seemed not to exist at all, and she gasped, hauling all the oxygen she could get into her body.

“Freya. _Lasscomeonback_.”

The forest was going to kill them. Or the orcs were.

If she got a vote, she preferred the orcs. They’d be faster about it.

Unless they weren’t. Unless they all got to take a vacation to Dol Guldor. Not much of a vacation. Azog would be there. He’d remember them. He’d remember her. She still recalled the way he had looked at her like filth on that cliffside. Also recalled the way Fíli had pulled a stupid to let her get away.

Oh crap.

Azog would definitely recall Fíli.

Yeah, probably best to cancel the vacation plan.

On the other hand, he’d get to meet his granddad. Thrain was good people. Crazy, but good people all the same.

“Oi. Freya! _Whatchatalkingbout_ Thrain for?”

Unless fanon was right and Fíli looked like Frerin. Then there could be confusion.

“ _SnaponoutofitLass_.”

The world shifted with a crack.

Frey blinked and noticed her hand was at her cheek.

Damn forest and its damn obnoxious distraction causing magic.

She glanced at her saviour slash abuser.

“Thank you Bofur.”

This wasn’t the first time one of them had gone meandering in their own brain. Or fallen victim to the haze around them. It certainly wasn’t the first time it had happened to her. Just, generally it was Balin or Fíli that snapped her out of it.

And slapping really was the most effective way of doing it. She wasn’t worried about that. Honestly, Bofur hadn’t even hit as hard as Balin did.

“You said Thrain.”

Right, she should be paying attention. She nodded.

“What’d ya see?”

This wasn’t something she’d planned to mention. Not to any of them. Thrain was dying, regardless. She’d made this call before she hit Bree. The dwarves didn’t need to know that Sauron had Thrain. They’d do something dumb.

“Freya? Is Thrain alive?”

Shocked at Bofur’s sudden perceptiveness, she nodded.

“Where? Durinultarg lass. Why’d ya not say _somewhatboutthissooner_? Why’d ya not _dragthelotofusoffta_ help him?”

She stammered an answer, “Y-y-yes. Is alive now. But is bad. We not help. If we help? We all are death. Dead.”

His expression, which had been a mistrustful glare for so long that she’d nearly forgotten what he normally looked like, shifted. It was, well, she thought it was sympathy.

“Sasakhmayan yothur sazraliya.”

“What?”

“Ne birasakniriya hu.”

“Bofur, I don’t speak khuzdul. Except the cursing Nori taught me.”

The former miner was still watching her, that weird and unexpected compassion or sympathy making her gawk at him. Conflicted too. Like he wanted to turn and tell Fíli and the others what she had just admitted.

“Freya, if he is alive--”

“Bofur. Why have you stopped?”

Both of them looked up at Fíli’s interruption.

They had fallen far behind the others on today’s jogged escape from their pursuers.

Bofur whipped his head from the prince to Freya, and she did her best to beg with her eyes. The last thing they needed right now was to distract the dwarf currently leading them, who was currently holding onto his temper by a thread. Bofur nodded, barely enough for her to see, and turned back.

“Forest _gotinto_ her head a bit.”

All three shared a moment of mutual understanding before resuming their walk.

Bofur stayed behind her though, a silent storm of unspoken questions.

 

* * *

 

“They’re alone.”

“They will protect each other. Or my company will succeed in finding them, and they will be fully safe.”

“You mean they’ll be thrown in cells to rot.” Tauriel recoiled as Kíli snapped at her. He had to stop that. Bilbo still had found nothing that could serve as an escape for them. Maybe she could be persuaded; but it would not happen if he insulted her. “I apologize, Tauriel.”

“You do not need to, Master Dwarf. Your continued confinement is… it is regrettable.”

“So why don’t you do something about it?”

“I cannot challenge my king’s command.”

“You would if it mattered to you.” He spat, turning back to the sky.

After that first night, Tauriel had taken him in secret to this place every day. It could only be at night, and it had to remain an absolute secret. They spoke now. Often they kept themselves to thornless subjects, each avoiding what weighed most on their minds. Kíli didn’t know why she was doing this, but could see a soul-deep frustration lingering in her.

She truly wanted to fight against the commands Thranduil had issued.

So instead they told stories. Myths and legends of their people. Public secrets. They discussed their own lives and dreams and hopes. Kíli had spent an entire night talking about their quest after she had admitted to knowing their destination.

He shouldn’t have.

His uncle would be furious, but even so, he had talked. He left out Bilbo, left out Freya’s prophecies, but he told her of it in broad terms. The dream of a restored home and future. The hope of ousting an evil force. The fervent wish to fight back against the darkness lingering on the edges of the world. The hopelessness of what they were doing, and their determination to do so anyway.

Tauriel had listened with rapt attention and a soft smile.

The next night she had spoken of the forest.

Not of Mirkwood, but of the Greenwood of old. The way light had seemed golden in the day and silver at night. How the air itself was a restorative. How the trees bowed in greeting beneath a breeze. She told him about her parents’ deaths and the way the forest had changed. She spoke about how the darkness of the forest and the King’s deep sadness had compounded each other.

Tauriel told him about the many times she had requested to lead a larger force to eradicate the spiders, and find the source of the blight. How the king had refused on the argument that their own lands were safe. How she knew that was not true.

“It does matter to me.” She answered earnestly. “Were I a dwarf, I would have been the first to join your quest. We cannot allow the enemy to hold so much of the world in thrall. And the only way to resist it is to meet it on the field. We cannot simply wait for evil to come for us.”

“Then why have you not let us go?”

“Why have you not asked to negotiate with my King Thranduil? It would be within your right, Kíli.”

Because his uncle would despise him for it. Because he could not contest his own king’s decision.

Which was why she could not let them go.

Kíli stared back at the small throwing axe in his hand. She had brought it to him. Tauriel had brought him his brother’s weapon as proof he still survived, not knowing that he would see it as evidence of their desperation. The elves had found it in the body of an orc.

Tauriel had beamed and extended it to him.

Kíli’s world had fallen down. Fíli would not have left the weapon behind by choice. He tried to explain it, only stopping himself when he could not keep his voice even and detached. She went tender, and told him about the starlight festivals of the elves, long and poetic stories that calmed him, that relaxed him. He had given up the hope of resisting his affection for her, adoring that she continued to try and encourage him.

He did not speak of it, but he could not stop his attachment from growing.

“What will you do first you when you reach Erebor?” She asked, moving them from the more painful subject.

“Kill the dragon, I suppose.”

“But-- The dragon has not been seen in sixty years. You believe he lives?”

“We know he does.” Kíli answered, almost smiling as the remembered taunting his brother had given him.

“And you think to succeed where Girion failed?”

Kíli shrugged, “I am the best archer amongst us, and no one else is going to help. Smaug lives, and must be slain, so it will have to be me to do it.”

Tauriel’s mouth opened to speak, before snapping shut as she became the skittish awkward presence she regularly was.

They didn’t speak again that night, but Kíli felt her watching him rather than the sky above them until they stepped back inside.

 

* * *

 

“You are scared, not angry.” Fíli said into the barely there light of the second watch.

At some point it had become tradition. They took second watch together. They fell asleep on empty growling stomachs, leaning into each other as the darkness closed around them, and were woken by Balin, who never commented.

They never made a fire anymore, not trusting what it would bring down on their heads.

So, in the dark, lit only by whatever scrap of light managed to slip between the leaves, they kept the second watch. On a colder night, days ago -- a week ago maybe? They had lost their sense of time -- when she started to shiver, Fíli noticed, and moved to sit pressed beside her.

When that had become the only way they could get through watch, she wasn’t sure. When it had become normal for him to open his coat and wrap it around the both of them, she really wasn’t sure.

Now, it was just a thing that was never mentioned in daylight.

And sometimes, in the dark, they had barely audible, barely understood conversations.

“Yes. I am scared.”

“Why? Orcs? The forest? Your dreams? Khulu-hu?”

She mumbled an answer to the khuzdul she had heard so many times.

“Frey. Khulu-hu?”

“Orcs.” She answered, placating, and not at all smooshing her face further into his shoulder to try and hide from explaining.

“Izirimi. We run fast. We _willescape_ this forest. We will see Erebor.”

He was always so determined. Some sort of fault in the Durin brain, clearly. They all did it. They were all so certain that they would be fine. Faced with something that challenged them, they thought they could surmount it through force of will alone.

Cozy as she was, it grated on her.

“That’s not the point Fíli. It isn’t. The point is that they shouldn’t have been here so early. they shouldn’t. Even if they had snuck around the forest for a while in the movie first.. this is too early. Something changed and I can’t figure out what! I’ve been trying. I have. And I know you don’t understand me right now. I don’t want you to. Hence the english. I need to know what changed because it is probably worse than I know. It always has been. Every time, it’s been worse than I thought. But, I didn’t change that much, I just. The cliff happened. and the eagles and the Carrock. and then Beorn’s. And then we hung out there and I threw a cup at you, and got food and --”

She cut off so quickly that Fíli tensed beside her. Frey was slack-jawed in the frail light, mind roiling as she took the events she recalled of the book and the events of the movie and the events she had survived and beat them against each other, trying to find another reason.

“Frey?”

It had to be another reason. Because this one was extraordinarily bad.

“My leg.”

“Your leg?”

Crap. That had come out in Westron.

“Beorn took us in. Beorn took care of me. Oh no. No no no no no no. Oh Durinul zantul’abban. Fíli?” He had turned and caught her shoulders as she began to panic. “It’s my fault. All of this. I don’t -- I mean, I’m not certain. I’m never certain. There’s a lot of other things that it could be, but with my luck, it’s all on me. This is my fault.”

“Khulu-hu, Frey?”

“Beorn.”

“Beorn?” The dwarf wasn’t going to understand.

“Goddamnit. Dammit. Damn. Shit. Fuck. This is all my fault. I’ve gotten all of you killed. The orcs aren’t supposed to be here yet and it’s my damn fault and just -- fuck. Fuck it. Fuck everything. No. I can’t. I’m done. You -- Fíli, Fíli no. Stay. You stay. Watch. There are orcs.” She pulled away faster than he could notice her fleeing, and before the tears in her eyes could begin to fall.

This was the last thing she needed. After everything. After all the pain and annoyance of the last few weeks. After nearly starving and the bullshit with hiding in trees and the dwarves finally starting to like her just a tiny bit, even Bofur, and this was just the worst thing that could be happening.

And yet.

Galadriel had been right. She had changed things, and she had read too many damn fanfics that skipped over what Beorn was supposed to do that first night. Frey hadn’t even noticed.

Yeah, sure, the bleeding and the active infection and the fever and the drinking of potent alcohol may have been a slight distraction, but she should have noticed. She should have realized and forced Beorn to go orc hunting.

Instead, he stayed to keep her safe. All because she had seemed scared of the dwarves.

The orcs must have regrouped early, or just had needed a good night’s sleep. Maybe there were just more of them. Maybe Beorn was supposed to kill the one that would have caught their scent.

It didn’t matter what was supposed to happen.

It was her fault.

And now the orcs were early and there was no getting around the fact that it was because of her.

She hadn’t cried since Rivendell, and the last months of fear caught up with her in a rush. Tears scalded down her cheeks as she ground her teeth and tried not to make any noise. There were orcs nearby. There were probably more damn spiders. There were the others. There was Fíli, who was probably sitting on watch in confusion twenty steps away, staring in the general direction she had gone, preparing a fresh tirade about wandering.

In that moment, she wasn’t sure who she wanted to find her least.

At least if the orcs showed up she could die and stop making everything worse.

“I told you I couldn’t do this Galadriel. I told you. I told you that this was a terrible idea. But no. You had to make me go. And now -- now they’re going to die and it’s going to be my fault and I just, fuck. I can’t. Fuck. I can’t do this. I cannot do this. I need to just get the hell away from them. They’ll be fine. They’ll. God, fuck. except, I fucked with Thorin’s head. And I still can’t figure out how to warn them about Ravenhill, and that might be different now, and if it’s book canon how the fuck do I even warn them, how do I protect them? I don’t even know what happened to Fíli then. I just know he dies. And the book was Bolg not Azog and it’s all just hopeless. Balls and fuck. Frickety fuck. No. No. I am not going to let-- I am not allowing that. So I just need to-- I need to stop --I need to just--”

She slammed her fist against a tree trunk, focusing on the pain spiking up her arm to try to shut off the hysterical weeping. When it faded, she hit the tree again. And again. Her forehead was pressed into the bark and the shaking of her sobs ground dirt into her skin. Her eyes were screwed closed, hiding from the shadowed, desolate, miserable fucking world for just a moment.

The pain began to eclipse the tears and she had nearly gotten herself under control. There was surely a bruise forming. She forced her breathing to be deeper and calmer.

One last punch to the aching side of her fist.

The images she had seen in her dreams, that the ring had been showing her welled up again; the dwarves dead and her responsible.

And she would be when they died.

She knew what was coming. She had been bloody omnipotent when she first got there, if you glossed over the minor language issues, and she had still managed to ruin it.

Tears were restarting.

She needed to hit the tree again.

But as her hand pulled back, blindly preparing to punch, it was arrested.

“Frey, stop. You are hurting you. Khulu?”

“How do you do that?” she hissed, “How did you manage to grab my hand? It is night. It is little moon. Is black. You see me?”

“You _reallyarent_ a dwarf, are you? Yes. I can see in the night.”

“I not can see.”

“Cannot.”

“Fine. Yes. Fuck. I cannot see.”

“You see _eventslongbefore_ they occur. That is enough.”

“No. No. Stop. Shh. Shush. Stop talking about that, Fíli. I can’t see shit. Not now in the dark. Not in the future. I have fucked everything up. You know what I know at this point? Actually know, not just a vague idea about? Smaug is not dead. Bilbo has the one ring. That’s it. Everything else is a bloody toss up at this point. Gandalf might die. The others might not escape. The orcs might not bring an army. Beorn might not show up. Thorin might not get gold sick and send for Dain.

“Oh, and this one I’m not sure about the how, but I’m pretty damn sure that we’re all going to die and die ugly.”

“Why do you _mention_ Dain?”

They always fixated on that. She shook her head. Apparently he could see it, even when she couldn’t see the tree beside her.

“Freya. We are fine. All fifteen are fine. You _sworeeveryone_ was fine. What _makesitseemlesscertain_ now? Why are you scared? Why are you scared of orcs?”

“Not scared of orcs.”

“You said--”

“Scared we are death, dead. Scared we will dead.”

“Will be dead.”

“Gah! Fine! Scared we will be dead.”

“Frey. We are fine.”

“No. We all are dead, Fíli. Why? Orcs. Smaug. And me.”

He caught her by the face as she shook her head violently, pushing away his confidence.

“Not dead now.”

That was true enough. And it wormed its way past her temper into her mind, pounding with her pulse. They weren’t dead now. They probably would be later. But for now, Fíli was holding onto her in the dark.

And she was fairly sure that the little crackle of noise she’d just heard was the orcs sneaking up on them once more.

And she’d be damned if she’d gone through all this without having checked off at least one box.

More than a little hysterical. Much more than a little desperate, she reached out to Fíli’s chest. She could only just see the outline of him in the night, but knew too well that he would be watching her all infuriatingly majestic and helpful and concerned. He’d be watching her with compassion and regality and offensive beauty.

And dammit, but if she was going to die in middle earth -- and she totally was because that was definitely orcs coming -- she was going to kiss the cute dwarf before she did.

Her hand closed in fur, and she pulled. He followed with the compliance of confusion, an explanation that was born out when she kissed him. His hands fell away. She missed at first, and almost found a moustache bead in her mouth. She corrected and kissed him like they were actually something. Like they were as well suited to each other as Bilbo and Thorin. Like it was the start of something incredible. She kissed him like they were more than each other’s nightly space heater.

His lips parted and Frey knew that he was about to try and speak.

That sounded like a bad idea, so she just flicked her tongue along his as she tangled a hand in hair, keeping him silent.

She kissed him with the superficial want that had existed since the movies decided to make the line of Durin scorchingly hot, and the emotional attachment she had been trying to pretend didn’t exist.

Fíli didn’t react.

Until he did.

He really was about ten times stronger than she was, so when he pushed on her shoulders and forced her away from him, there wasn’t a chance to resist it.

Frey squeezed her eyes shut, well aware that she was blushing madly, and that the damned dwarf could probably see it. His grip was too tight on her shoulders.

Fine. Yes.

She had misread this.

Cultural differences.

Shit.

The trope was less fun in person.

“Freya. Jal khakful d’ala saktibmayan.”

Ooh boy.

Full name.

Not a good sign.

And angry Khuzdul.

Really not a good sign.

“Freya.” Whatever else he meant to say was never spoken. He cursed again, softly, and caught her arm, hauling her along. He must have heard the orcs, but she didn’t recognize the whispered ramble of khuzdul as they moved. Except for the cursing. That she knew. Fíli was as angry as she’d ever heard him.

They rushed back to the the others, Fíli dragging her with restrained fury, carefully not touching her hand. All five were awake and travelling less than a minute later, hurrying toward a stand of trees they could climb and use for cover.

As she swung onto the first branch, helped up by Balin, who Fíli had shoved her towards after they got back to camp, Frey couldn’t help but hope that the orcs would just kill her then and there. It had to be less uncomfortable than this was going to be.  


* * *

 

Kíli gaped as Tauriel repeated the command.

“Stay silent. And follow me.”

She was standing in the open cell door, better armed than she usually was. It was early for their normal excursion. More importantly, she seemed tense. Or, Kíli thought she did. It was still enormously difficult to tell what was in her mind behind that composed mask elves were so good at affecting.

But she had never been anything but earnest with him. She had never given him cause to distrust her, or cause to betray her. Kíli followed rapidly, never even thinking of trying to make an escape.

They stopped inside a small room, deep below the palace proper. There was a second door on the other side of the chamber, and the only light was cast by her torch.

“What is it? Has something happened?” he rushed out as soon as the door shut, “Have you found them? Are they alright? Have you found-- do you have any evidence or any proof? Why did you bring me here now? You never come so early. What’s happened?”

“You should have told me.”

He tilted his gaze, puzzling at the scarcely leashed betrayal in her voice.

“Told you what, Tauriel?”

“You should have told me about him.”

Kíli shook his head, still not understanding. “I did tell you. Not. No, not everything. But I told you about him. You’ve been looking for him. You’ve brought me news. I don’t know anything that you don’t.”

“Kíli. You could have -- he could have been killed because you didn’t. He could have died trying to help you all because you did not warn me. Why--” the elf stuttered, then exhaled slowly, eyes falling shut to hide the glimmer of hurt in her eyes, “I thought that you trusted me. These last weeks, it has seemed that we...”

“I do. I shouldn’t. Thorin will never forgive me, but I do Tauriel, I swear it. Why do you doubt that?”

When she reopened her eyes, they pinned him in place like arrows, precise and unyielding. She gestured to the second door.

Kíli followed the silent instruction, and moved across the small room, with a well of fear rising in his gut. It wasn’t a cell, but nor was it a medical room. It was a pantry, if that. It was a forgotten chamber in a forgotten corner of a kingdom that she had told him was falling into history and disrepair. The door was solid save for a small window, and was lashed closed between the handle and a column.

The first glance was too dark for even his dwarven vision to pierce.

The second revealed a form lying asleep on a pile of linens.

The third let him see the bare, furred feet.

“Is he injured?” Kíli managed to keep his voice from cracking.

“No. Only asleep. I gave him a draught.”

Kíli hadn’t seen Bilbo much lately. Probably because of the insults and anger on Kíli’s end. Bilbo had become the manifestation of his fears. Tauriel had become his balm.

“When did you find him?”

“Just before dawn. Kíli why did you not tell me he was here? I found him, and I thought at first that-- if it had not been myself, he would be dead. How could you have risked his life like that?” Gone was the nervousness she often fell into. This was the captain of the guard more than his friend, questioning a prisoner.

“He was trying to get us out. Of course, I couldn’t tell you. He was the only hope we had.” And now it was gone.

Realization rocked him on his feet.

Thorin didn’t know.

All Thorin would know was that Bilbo had not come to him. That Bilbo was late. Kíli had seen the raw pain in his uncle’s face after they escaped the goblin tunnels. That was before they had truly admitted their affections. Now?

He needed to get a message to Thorin. But there was no way to do so.

Kíli glanced at the door again. It wasn’t a cell. There was many many empty cells, so it wasn’t a question of a lack of capacity. This was a corner of the elvish realm that saw little traffic. This was a room that was not normally used.

Even the rope on the door -- it had been improvised.

“You haven’t told anyone.” Kíli looked up in time to see her turn away, blinking too fast, fidgeting.

“I wasn’t certain if -- you had told me that -- This is not your brother.”

“No.”

“This is one of the perian.”

Kíli scrambled to recall that word in Sindarin, failed, and answered, “He’s a hobbit?”

“On your dwarvish quest?”

“Yes.”

“And he has travelled with you from the west?”

“Yes.”

“And you knew he was within this kingdom, in danger and hiding from my guards?”

He nodded. “Tauriel, I couldn’t tell you.”

“You should have, Master Dwarf. Come. I need to return you to your cell.”

Kíli took a step away from her, almost pressed himself into the door that hid Bilbo from view. Her formal anger was patchy. And he shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet. What are you going to do?”

“I am going to return you to your cell, and report this to my king.”

“No you won’t.”

“You dare to tell me what to do, Dwarf?”

“No, Tauriel, that’s not what I meant. You found him this morning. It has been most of a day and you have not told anyone, I am certain of that. You do not want to see him in a cell any more than you want to see the rest of us there. Please, wait. Think about this before you take an action you cannot undo.”

“I am charged with --”

“What would your king do to him?”

Her face closed off, and it was more than enough to answer his question. Acting on instinct, he dug in his pocket and pulled out the runestone. Two steps brought him beside her, and she flicked her gaze down for a moment.

“This is what I was holding that night. It’s a token from my amad. It’s a token to remind me of my promise to return to her. She gave it to me and made me vow that I would come back, and in the faith that I would do the right thing at every step of our quest. It is the only precious thing I still carry.”

He pressed it into her hand and clasped his over hers.

“I should have told you Tauriel. But I could not risk the only hope we had of succeeding in this quest. We must continue. We must prevail. I know you think the same. Take this, and take me back, and think. If you still believe it right to tell your king, do so. If someone must be punished for this, do not hold him accountable. He has only done as we told him to. Let your king treat him as one of us. We will be here for the rest of our lives. My brother will die in your forest. The dragon will wake and rain fire on the defenseless without anyone willing to stand against it. And the evil of the world will spread.”

Kíli dropped his hands away, stepped back, “I trust you Tauriel.”

Then he exited the chamber, leading her in silence back to his cell, where she turned the lock and left him with his tattered hope.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to be over here writing the next chapter as fast as I can. That's probably what you want currently. But let me know if I have formatting issues because Wow they are hard to see at this point.  
> Also, I adore all of you. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Khuzdul**  
>  Durinul zantul’abban. : durin’s hairy balls  
> Sasakhmayan yothur sazraliya : You see more than you want  
> Ne birasakniriya hu. : You don’t control it.  
> Ne sazraliya aksut belamê ina ahliti mimadkhatadrân? : You don’t want to be my pillow while I take a nap?  
> Khulu-hu? : What is it?  
> Izirimi : have faith  
> Jal khakful d’ala saktibmayan. : shitty moment for this, you know
> 
> **Sindarin**  
>  Anfang : dwarf  
> Ungol : spider  
> Maeth : skirmish  
> perian : hobbits


	19. Saviors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which help comes from unexpected places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Meph](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) is just the the most patient of all betas. He is also writing the fabulous fic, [Where the Road then Takes Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5351141/chapters/12357002), which you should be reading. 
> 
> Word bank at the end. You're going to want it. And, a quick note, Fili and the others on team two are starting to catch some English. So. Sometimes Frey's dialogue will be broken up when they hear it, the same way as when she hears them.  
> Also. Fair warning. This chapter is a roller coaster. I'm not even a little bit sorry.

Once, when Bilbo had been an adventurous tween, back in the Shire, before his life had been turned into chaos by Gandalf and his troupe of confusticated dwarves, he had trysted with Lobelia’s love interest of the season, a Haldoc Grubb. Lobelia, upon noticing their absence from the Old Took’s Birthday party, had snuck after them, found them in an obliging garden with a distinct lack of shirts, entirely too occupied in mutual exploration to be bothered with her huff of annoyance.

More’s the pity.

By the time she had gone away and come back with her vengeance -- that being Aldo Proudfoot’s grumpiest pony -- they had a distinct lack of trousers as well.

So. When said pony ran at them, they naturally fled, and, entirely by accident, sprinted stark naked toward, through, and subsequently away from the party that was still underway. At speed. The only thing he could say came good of that night was the boys’ sudden reputation for being quite impressively endowed. Had the pony arrived a few minutes later, their reputations may not have been so grand.

However, for several decades, Bilbo was convinced that nothing in his life would ever top that in regards to negative impacts of a licentious impulse.

Bilbo was wrong.

He twiddled his thumb over the cap of the little bottle of oil that had remained in his pocket. This was all Thorin’s fault.

Clearly.

He was the one that had taken to kissing him so sweetly through the bars of his cell. He was the one that had found a way to get the elves to open his cell door regularly by refusing to return the bowls and plates and spoons. He was the one who had whispered about all of the things he wanted to do to Bilbo when they escaped. He was the one who had taken to writing poetry in westron and khuzdul while Bilbo sought an escape. He was the one who had kept Bilbo’s spirits afloat during the last few weeks of hiding and investigating and danger. Him and his irrepressible confidence in the hobbit. Him and his adoring looks.

Him and his maddeningly handsome face.

So, when Bilbo had finally admitted that sleeping beside Thorin would do a great deal to help his state of mind, Thorin made a somewhat lewd joke about what would help Thorin’s state of mind. It had been Thorin helping to keep Bilbo from despair. All the same, it danced around in Bilbo’s head for the rest of the day as he investigated yet more corridors and chambers that were useless to them.

A joke that involved no trousers.

So. Clearly. It was Thorin’s fault.

Even if Bilbo had been the one to overlook the elf captain in the corner of the room he was exploring. She shouldn’t have been awake so early anyway. And how was he supposed to know she would hear the sound of the little glass bottle being lifted from the shelf?

Damned elves.

He had slipped off the ring because she had kept an arrow trained at his chest with a disturbing accuracy, and he knew he was hardly intimidating. She… well, safe to say that her reaction was not what Bilbo had expected.

“You are here with the dwarves, to help them.” Not quite what he expected. Nodding was the only possible response.

“You will not find a way to remove them from this place.” She had finally said after staring at him intensely enough that Bilbo had begun to fidget.

“I might.”

“You believe you can because of your gifts?”

“Uh… yesh.” Gifts. Yes. That was a good way to describe his ring. A gift. A present.

“Does Kíli know that you are here?”

He had stammered then. Yes, he had seen the elf near Kíli’s cell a few times, but he had seen her near every cell at least a few times. Stammering turned to coughing, and she had handed him a glass of something.

Not wanting to upset the elf that had put down the bow, and left her knives in their sheathes, he drank it.

Not his best choice.

He woke up in a small room on a musty cot, only a faint trail of light coming in through a tiny window in the door. Though, he was very well rested.

And he would have happily laid back down to sleep some more, but a few seconds after waking, the consequences had crashed into him. He had been the dwarves only hope of escape, shy of the others miraculously arriving with an army, or, far less likely, diplomacy.

Worse, he had promised to return to Thorin that night before the nightly ritual of opening the door. He had promised to curl up against the dwarf king and get proper rest for once. He had promised he would let Thorin take care of him for a night. He’d had his own ideas about what that would mean.

Instead, he was here, and Thorin was unaware.

What must he have thought? What kind of torment was Thorin going through? Had the elf told Thorin? Had she told Thranduil? Well. If she had, Bilbo was certain the prancing tosser would have hauled Thorin out of his cell to gloat. He had spent enough days trailing after the king to be sure of that.

Had Thranduil told Thorin that Bilbo was killed? Was Thorin well?

Bilbo knew how he would react if he thought Thorin was lost, and, he liked to think that Thorin would be equally upset. For a moment, he recalled Thorin on the Carrock.

“Confound it all. I have to get out of here.”

He could not, would not let his dwarves waste their days in this place.

He was a Baggins of Bag End, he would find a way to solve this.

 

* * *

 

It had been more than a day.

Kíli was going to wear a hole in his sleeve where he kept fussing at it.

More than a day, and he had not seen Tauriel.

Or, he was going to wear a hole in the floor pacing like this.

He had not heard any great commotion. He had not seen Bilbo. He had only seen the most close-lipped of the elves, who handed him his piece of stuffed bread and vanished.

With each passing breath, Kíli grew more anxious, grew more certain that he would live and die in this place. More certain that the tiny little flicker of something in the air between himself and Tauriel, that he had gambled everything on, was nothing more than his own imagining.

No.

He had to stay confident. He was a Durin.

No matter how bleak the world, how dark the past, he had to examine it, find the lessons there, and meet the future with the same will and determination that was the hallmark of his lineage.

He had spent decades hearing this. It was his responsibility. Never mind that he was very bad at it.

Even if Tauriel surrendered Bilbo to Thranduil, Fíli would continue. Fíli would survive with Balin to advise him and Bofur and Bombur to protect him, and Freya to warn him of obstacles he didn’t know to defend against. Fíli would escape the forest. Fíli would reach the mountain, slay the dragon, and come to the gates of the elvenking with the might of the dwarves behind him, arkenstone in hand, and Thranduil would release them.

They would succeed. If not this year, then soon.

But the key was still around Thorin’s neck.

Kíli kicked the door.

No.

Confident.

That was the only way to get through when the world was set on dragging you into despair.

Dwarves were made of stone and would not be worn down by something so paltry as confinement. He would not let his reaction be anything but strong.

Even if the thought of going years without seeing the sky twisted in his gut. Even if that thought twisted worse for how undwarven it was.

“Kíli.”

Tauriel had arrived as he berated himself, and shifted gawkishly as soon as Kíli looked at her. It plucked at something unspoken in his chest when she wouldn’t hold his gaze. Her voice wasn’t as smoothly strung as it had been, but the cause, he could not guess.

It was past the midday meal, but not close to the perfect stillness of the times when she would secret him to their shared star gazing.

She was early.

She must have told the king.

And Kíli could not blame her for that.

Try as he might to tell himself that he now needed to hate her for the betrayal, he knew he could not have directly disobeyed his uncle. He wasn’t brave enough to stand against his king, so how could he condemn her for the same loyalty?

“There is a feast tonight. A great celebration.”

What little air he had punched out of his chest as his eyes shut. She sounded desolated by what she had done. Maybe he could ask her to pass a message to Thorin. His uncle at least deserved to know that Bilbo was unharmed. Somewhere in another cell, Thorin would be driving himself mad with fear and anxiety over Bilbo’s absence. Despite years of lectures on how a king had to put aside their own emotions, Bilbo was an exception to his uncle’s control. She sympathized with them, he knew that, maybe she would do that favor and ease his mind. Maybe she would commit a small treason. Or maybe she had remembered her oaths and now clung to them. Her hands were clasped, knuckles gone white from the grip.

“My king is unusually cheerful despite the reports of spiders and orcs on the fringes of our lands.”

Of course he was, the bastard was probably planning the best way to taunt Thorin with Bilbo’s capture.

“So cheerful in fact, he included most of the guard in the festivities for the evening.”

The better to brag. And Tauriel was still speaking to the ground.

“It is to be a glorious night, and everyone was thrilled to be included.”

Victory feasts always were.

“The Keeper of the Keys was upset to have a responsibility for the evening that kept him from it.”

Well, without them in cells, there was no reason for the feast, was there?

“So he was pleased when I offered to hold the keys until the morning.”

At least she had the decency to feel remorse for dooming them to this fate and not want to drown in wine with the rest of the mibilkhagsul ufâr.

“And I -- I was pleased not to involve him in what I had decided to do.”

Kíli jerked to look at her.

“Tauriel?”

She finally raised her head and met his eyes. She was nearly glowing. Set on her decision and eager, the fear that he could see in her tense shoulders and stiff stance paled beside it. She had an entire sky’s stars caught inside her expression and as her timid smile widened and deepened, Kíli felt his own cheeks grow sore with the force of his answering smile. She was radiant and unreal. She was more than they deserved.

He only noticed she had unlocked the door when she had to step aside to open it.

Hugging her would be inappropriate.

Definitely.

When he stopped himself, and lurched uneasily, her smile settled. Kíli could see her retreating to a more confident footing. She fell into authority and command. Calm and rational and composed, she asked, “Do you know where the others are kept? Does your friend?”

“Yes he does.”

“Very good. Follow me.” Her steps were hurried, and Kíli half jogged to keep pace, following her down staircases.

When they stopped in a cellar, he spun in a circle, marvelling at the alarming quantity of wine. It was stacked in wall frames clear to the ceiling and there were still more barrels in the corners of the room.

“You... want to get drunk?” The joke slipped out without thought, accompanied by a quick wink.

“Did you never wonder how this kingdom traded with the Men of the Lake?”

For a moment he thought she had made a joke in response to his, but a better look showed her watching him intently. Utterly serious, then.

“Why would I ever wonder that Tauriel? All I’ve seen is what you’ve shown me.”

She acknowledged that with a slight tilt of her head.

“Goods are brought up the river in barrels on a barge. When they are empty…” She looked to her side. He had no idea what she was implying. None. He had thought this was some form of escape. He really had, and yes, he trusted her, and yes, he wanted to believe that she was helping them.

Presently, Kíli was looking between her burgeoning irritation and the stack of barrels.

Empty barrels. Huge ones in fact.

As big as the ones he and Fíli had used to hide from their Amad in the cellar after the incident with the dyer’s guild.

Oh. OH.

New understanding made him laugh and released the tension in Tauriel.

“It will be unpleasant.” She warned.

“This whole forest is unpleasant.” She grimaced, and the amendment fell out of his mouth, “Mostly.”

Instead of commenting on the way she looked away with wide eyes, Kíli reexamined the room. Now that he understood what she proposed, the barrels made more sense, as did the lever.

The fog that hung over him had parted when he had seen Tauriel’s eyes alight, and dispersed entirely with this opportunity. Kíli felt energetic again. He felt excited and eager. Maybe he would be the one to save Fíli after all.

“You will need to seal everyone inside. There are guards along the river. If they see you, they will raise the alarm and prevent your escape. Bring your companions here, hide them within the barrels, I will seal you inside, and I can then release the lever.”

“You’re coming with us?” For the space of a thought, Kíli thought he was right. She brightened and she began to speak, then withdrew, shaking her head.

“If I leave with you, the king’s wrath will spread to others who were not involved. I will not let my friends bear the anger and punishment that should be mine.”

If Thranduil was half as temperamental as the stories made him seem, she would find herself in a cell until Kíli had grown a beard and seen it turn white. He needed to convince her to come with them. Thorin would adore her for defying the elf king. He would adore her for helping them escape and for saving Bilbo. Protecting Bilbo. Opting to not shoot Bilbo.

Actually, it would probably be better to skip over that part when Kíli praised her.

He just had to convince her to come along with them.

There was steel in her eyes when he looked back, and Kíli knew before he started she would not be swayed. So he diverted his request and stuttered, “W-w-well. If you are not to be there after, one of us will need to stay outside the barrels.”

“Your companion can pass unseen.”

“He also can’t swim.”

“And you can?”

“Better than a fish.”

“You are a dwarf, you will not be weighed down by the - by the stones of your birth?”

Apparently elves were unaware of the meaning that word took on in Westron. Or she thought dwarves were literally full of rocks.

“I’ll be fine.” he deflected, “But I will need a pry bar, or I’ll never get them out at the end of this.”

“What if you are seen?”

“I’ll hide.”

“Kíli.”

That was a tone he knew. That was the tone his amad reverted to whenever she learned of his and Fíli’s plans. It was condemnation with a pinch of admiration. And, as he had been hearing it for decades, it did not get under his skin. He knew better than to look up from his hunt for a pry bar. Then he would have to resist the look as well as the voice, and, well, that was much harder.

“You recall where your companion is, and know how to reach him from here?” She asked in a more commanding tone. When he laughed at that, she rattled off quick directions for him. “I will do what I can to ensure you are not disturbed, but move swiftly, be silent, and if you are discovered, do not attempt to fight. On the shelf, Kíli.”

He snagged the bar and set it atop one of the barrels.

“We need to get our weapons and armor back.”

“Your armor will weigh you down in the river.”

“Just the weapons then. The ones that fit in the barrels.”

“Do you know where--”

“Bilbo does. How long do we have before the feast ends?”

“A few hours.”

Kíli nodded, staring at a tall barrel in the corner, still half full, hoping it would fit Dwalin’s axes. They could pour out the contents when the others arrived.

“Kíli?” The softness in her voice turned him, “the scouts in the forest have sent new reports of a force travelling just beyond the borders of our lands. A larger force than those we have seen recently. My king commanded we not pursue it.”

His shoulders tightened as his eyes shuttered against her compassion. As soon as they were free of this place, they would return to the forest to find his brother.

If Thorin resisted, Kíli would go alone.

“I will go above to keep any from coming here. Do not tarry.”

She left before Kíli could say an of the dozen things in his mind. Whatever that flicker was in the air, it could not be the priority now.

Her instructions led him back to Bilbo’s improvised cell, and he slipped the rope from the post as quickly as he could. There was no sound on the opposite side. That would be just his luck; he finally had a way to get them out, and Bilbo had escaped all on his own. That would unravel the plan nicely. Fortunately, his concern was unfounded.

Bilbo gasped as Kíli opened the door, and reappeared, tucked into a corner. His eyes were a bit red in the candlelight, but the relief was obvious.

“Kíli! Oh, thank Eru. How? How did you get out? Wait, how did you know I was here?”

Damn.

Kíli hadn’t considered this part.

At all.

The truth was out of the question.

And impenetrable lies were never his strong point.

Innocent charm it was then.

“If I swear to you I will explain after this is over, will you just pretend that this was all you? That you escaped and found a way to get us out?”

“Kíli, are you mad? I can’t possibly -- wait. You found a way for us to escape this place?”

The dwarf nodded, “I have the keys to the cells, and there are barrels in the wine cellar that will take us downriver.”

Bilbo gaped at the ring of keys for a breath, processing Kíli’s impassioned announcement. “Wait, barrels? You want me to put you all in barrels and just shove you in a river? That’s-- Kíli, even for you -- is this the best you can think of? You’ll all drown. And I certainly will. I’ll have to be outside the--”

“I will.”

“You will what?”

“I’ll be outside the barrels. You can’t swim.”

“Won’t you be seen?”

“I might, but I can swim like a fish. I’ll just go underwater if I need to.”

Bilbo had explained long ago that hobbits were not particular fans of water. Too prone to sinking, and therefore, drowning. So the look of outraged horror was explainable.

“Nope. No. No. That’s -- Your uncle will -- you can’t just --” He sighed, exasperated, and dug his hand into his pocket. A little band of gold emerged and Bilbo held it out, hesitating only for a second before placing it in Kíli’s palm. “Use that. It’s how I’ve been sneaking about. It’ll turn you invisible.”

Dwarven instinct took over and he weighed the ring, turning it and inspecting it. How very hobbitish, to have a magic ring, and have it look so dull and useless.

“You’d best give it back to me after this is done though, and don’t think I won’t come after you if you try to keep it.”

Hurriedly promising to do so, Kíli and Bilbo returned to the main hallway.

“We need to get the others, and our weapons.”

“We need to get out, your weapons can be replaced.”

“Would you like to tell that to Dwalin? Would you like to tell Thorin you left Orcrist behind?”

Bilbo fidgeted and mumbled, fingers playing with the hilt of his little sword. Kíli, realizing the implication, started to grin so widely that it made Bilbo frown. “She left you your sword.” He explained.

And maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say at the time. Bilbo was, as he had proved many times, a very clever hobbit. By the flash of shock, he had just put together how Kíli had escaped at all. There was no comment made, but their inevitable conversation was likely to be more of a lecture than anything else, of that, Kíli was certain.

“My sword is called Sting.” He raised his chin in challenge.

Kili didn’t contest it. Sting was a nice name for the tiny thing.  

The pair half jogged through the lower levels of the Elven kingdom, even passing a hall with dwarvish voices in it. Kíli had a guess why, and was proven right when Bilbo sped up, keys in hand, and half threw himself at a cell door in an isolated and dreary hallway.

“Bilbo, where have you been, you gave me no warning you would not return and have been gone for -- you have the keys! -- however did you -- Kíli?” Thorin’s voice was hoarse and reverent as he spoke to Bilbo, cracking up in pitch when he spotted his nephew. Kíli rolled his eyes as the pair grinned like sops at each other, hopeless and lovey, and was about to break custom by asking if Thorin’s poetic ramblings had kept Bilbo from finding an escape earlier. Then Thorin pointed to the keys, “I knew that you would find a way.”

Kíli found himself very interested in the carving of of a leafy plant on the wall.

A moment later the pair had returned to being the King and the burglar, slipping on masks that didn’t quite hide the way they leaned into each other as they rushed back to the rest of the company.

Bilbo acted his part admirably, lying with verve about finding an escape and stealing the keys when the elves weren’t looking. He even had known about the feast, and explained away why the guards were absent. Kíli elected to dismiss his kin’s gullibility as rapturous hope clouding their thoughts. He might have believed it himself if he hadn’t known the truth.

The room with their weapons was, as it turned out, also the room with their armor, and Kíli slipped on his tunic and vambraces as Bilbo berated the others that they had to move lightly. Dwalin in particular had to be reprimanded at length as he gathered every piece of his armor.

Their response to the barrels was… less enthusiastic.

Bilbo simply flicked a glance to Thorin, and the king ordered them all to climb inside. Dwalin emptied the tallest barrel in the room of the apples inside, stashed his axes along with the other large weapons, and added some of the armor and clothing that would not easily fit on them inside.

Kíli watched as Nori, the most at ease with the prospect of time spent sealed in a barrel, vanished beneath a lid Dwalin pressed into place.

“We will find him, Kíli.” Thorin said gently at his side.

Kíli wanted to cling to his uncle and accept the fear that he had been holding at bay for weeks, but, once again, shoved it aside.

“We will escape this place,” he continued, “And we will find him. We will find all of them.”

“There have been orcs in the forest, Uncle.”

“How do you know?”

“I listened to the elves.”

Thorin crumpled, just slightly, at that, but by his next inhale, he was standing tall, “Then we will find them quickly. Or we will find them in Laketown raising an army to bid for our return.” A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and with everyone but Bilbo now hidden away, Thorin pulled him into an embrace.

That was Thorin. That was the uncle that Kíli had grown up idolizing. He was a leader who was deeply pained by every mistake and error, and who found a way, time and again, to remain unbroken by it. He stood back up every time he was pushed down. He was who Kíli tried to be. Encircled by strength and confidence, Kíli found a bit more of his own. A bit more of the unbreakable spirit of the line of Durin.

They separated at Bilbo’s quiet clearing of his throat. “Thorin, you’re next. In you go.”

“Kíli is next.” Thorin returned.

“I’m not going in a barrel.” Kíli interrupted, saving Bilbo from the glare that had instantly found him.

“Bilbo can pass unseen.”

He opened his mouth to clarify, caught Bilbo’s pleading gaze, and guiltily continued, “Sorry Bilbo. Thorin, hobbits don’t swim.”

The change was instantaneous. Thorin spun back to Bilbo. Bilbo fumed through the betrayal. Thorin whispered reprimands. Kíli wasn’t going to be the only one receiving a lecture once they escaped. Apparently his uncle had been told this before, back by the river of sleep, and simply forgotten, so half the anger was at himself. Thorin practically lifted the flummoxed hobbit into a barrel. Discomfort outweighing sass, Kíli made a show of looking at another leafy carving, and gave them a moment together.

Whatever passed between them was too quiet for Kíli to hear as he rifled through things in a barrel that reeked of fruit.

The pop of the lid setting into place cued Kíli to turn back.

Not that he would ever admit it, but there was certainly a bit of pink on Thorin’s cheeks.

If Fíli was there they would have broken into a giggling fit at the sight.

If Fíli was there, they might not be escaping at all. Tauriel had only spoken to him due to his distress.

His uncle helped him hoist the barrel of weapons onto the others before climbing into one of his own. “You know how to release the barrels?”

“Lever.” He pointed.

“You are confident in your swimming? Your injury is no longer hurting? No. No. It would be best if I were to remain outside. I’ll not tell Dis that I placed you in danger. Here, climb into this--”

“Uncle. I will be fine. My side does not hurt. I can swim better than you can, and I will see you again soon.”

“You need not--”

“Uncle, I will be fine.”

“Kíli. If.. if you are seen. No, if you feel you must separate from us, and rejoin us after for your own safety, do so. Swear that you will do so. I am certain we would be able to escape these barrels alone if we must.” What he did not say was more touching than the formality of his uncle’s words. In between them was a plea for his survival, a thread of fear that Kíli was his only nephew now, and a great deal of unspoken affection.

So Kíli promised, and sealed the lid.

Then he checked all of the others, and checked them again. Slowly drowning in a confinement one couldn’t escape was a terrifying thought. The ring was in his pocket, the pry bar tucked into his belt, one of Nori’s knives was at his side. He needed to pull the lever, release the obvious trap in the floor, and be on his way.  

A hand settled on his shoulder.

He only jumped a little.

Maybe a lot.

Based on the sweet smirk Tauriel gave him, it may have been more obvious than he would have liked. She gestured to the barrels, he nodded. She motioned for him to be silent, and to follow him.

He did.

They only went as far as the hallway, and she spoke in a whisper, hiding from both the dwarves and the elves.

“You will be safe Kíli? If you are seen, you will be shot. If you separate from them, and travel through the forest you will not be seen as easily, and I am sure that your fellow dwarves would be able to force the lids off if need be.”

“I’ll be fine, Tauriel. See?” He slipped the ring onto his finger without letting her see it, grinning unrepentant and cocky.

Her expression did not change.

“See what, Kíli?”

He didn’t answer at first, looking around him at the faint haze on the edges of of his vision, and curious at the sudden queasiness he felt.

Apparently magic hobbit invisibility rings didn’t work on dwarves.

They should have tested that theory first.

“Nothing. I should be fine.” She was unconvinced. She delved into her own pocket, revealing the runestone he had pressed at her with his entreaty. Kíli caught her hand before she could start, “No, keep it. It’s-- it’s a promise.”

Eyes wide as she gaped at their clasped hands, she whispered, “What does it say?”

Kíli tightened his grip, “Amralîme.”

“And that means…”

“Come back to me.”

She stared into his eyes, then back to their hands, snatched her own away, looked back to his face, and mouthed silent syllables in the direction of the floor, then the ceiling, then the floor again. Tauriel managed to hold his eye for longer than a blink, and Kíli watched as she retreated to the safety of aloof elvish manners.

“You must leave swiftly if you are to succeed and find your brother.”

There was no denying that.

Feeling at once more confident and infinitely more reluctant, Kíli grabbed the heavy lever, and pressed his weight into it. The floor opened, the hinges creaked, the barrels groaned, and Kíli flung himself toward the slope of wood. As he slid down it, Tauriel watched, her hand with the stone held to her chest, and her eyes glittering.

Then she was gone, and Kíli plummeted into the water.

 

* * *

 

The air split with the crash of steel and iron. It was familiar in a way his kin had always told him it would be, but revolting at the same time. They had been only months on this quest, and Fíli fell into battle with the ease he had long envied in others. No matter to the battles he had fought before leaving Ered Luin, Fíli had never felt so confident in his bones as he did now.

To his left, Balin knocked back a smallish orc with grim ferocity.

Bombur and Bofur were a whirl of battering attacks somewhere deeper in the approaching orcs. The pair had charged, nearly feral, weary of the way they had been harried and pecked at for weeks. They all had. They all were. Weeks of spaced skirmishes had them all beyond the point of reason.

And these last two days... It had been a torture.

Fíli dodged another strike and jumped aside as the creature overextended. His second blade slashed down, but barely caught its back before the orc had pivoted with its twisted sickle. He parried, tried again, missed. Triumphant cheers rose from the Ur brothers and he had a glimpse of them advancing, flanking around the main party, gaining an advantage.

Balin was being forced closer to the precipice by his opponents. The fall down to the river was steep, but survivable should they be forced to attempt it. That might have been the wiser choice. The threat of drowning was less liable to kill them than the blades of the enemy. Even with the rapids throwing mist and foam airborne, it was less likely to be their end than if these half dozen orcs and handful of wargs were the scouts, and the full force of hunting orcs had cornered them at the end of this long chase.

He watched as his mentor faked a stumble and took advantage of the orc’s amused surprise.

Balin took off its arm, then its head, and moved for the next one.

A warg’s growl spun him to check the last of their group.

Freya held her hammer behind her, gripped to swing upward; Fíli’s knife was still in her other hand, extended as a ploy to bring the beast closer.

She noticed, and spared him a glance, shouting, “Am fine. Orcs!”

She was right. Two more were advancing toward him. He readjusted his swords and began, with too much of his attention on her.

Two days of frantic retreat had given them neither reprieve nor rest. The orcs had found them in the trees before dawn broke.

Fíli didn’t know how they had managed to get away.

No, he did.

Bombur’s berserker rampage followed by his unexpectedly remarkable speed when sprinting.

That’s how. His companion’s willingness to risk their life to save the others.

Fíli caught one of the orc’s axes between his blades as he kicked the other in the gut.

They had survived everything else in Mirkwood. They had learned to fight spiders and travelled without water or rest or food. They had lost the majority of their company and been chased across a poisonous treacherous forest. Fíli had no intention of failing now.

Frey’s invective sodden rant kept him apprised of her status. When she suddenly sounded more imperiled than furious, he knocked back one of his opponents to gain a moment’s pause, and slashed open the warg’s side. There was no more time than that. The duo he was fighting had watched his diversion with a cruel fury lighting their eyes. They spat words to each other in black speech that made Fíli step closer to her. He heard her yelling turn victorious, and saw the warg fall to the dirt, dead.

She noticed even before he could call, joining him with a short nod of acknowledgment.

The first orc fell in seconds. The other soon followed.

He couldn’t stop himself from checking, just once, that she was uninjured.

She was preoccupied, sheathing the knife and trading it for one of the bastardized spears from a corpse. Good decision. She needed something with a longer range to balance her slighter height and frame. He wasn’t going to think about how pathetic an excuse for armor her tunic was. He should have noticed sooner. He should have noticed at Beorn’s and borrowed spare pieces from the others. The elves should have provided her with something useful instead of pretty.

But no, he didn’t have time to think about that imminent disaster. There was another coming at them through the underbrush.

“Lot more comin!” Bofur yelled to them as he jogged out of the tree line. Bombur followed just behind, spattered with blood and filth and smiling as he panted for air. He had a pair of stolen orc axes in hand, and passed one to Frey in exchange for the spear.

“How far?”

“Just behind. Not many I don’t think. Didn’t get a good look.”

They could withstand that. With luck, they could end this hunt here and now, finally follow the river, reach the lake, and find a way to retrieve their kin from the elves.  

The orcs had never yet attacked with their full numbers. Fíli and the others had been winnowing them down one skirmish at a time. The orcs always held back a part of the company. They always erred on caution. That, more than anything, unnerved Fíli.

It wasn’t the way of the enemy. Orcs were mindless droves, scarcely better than goblins. They did not plan and restrain their strength. They did not toy with their prey.

“We hold our ground here. Bombur, Bofur, don’t get too far off this time. If we need--”

“Prince.”

“Khulu-hu?”

He never got to answer. There wasn’t any time. The orcs arrived, visible between the trees and the brush. And at the front, astride the white warg he had ridden on the cliffside, sat Azog.

The enormous gundabad orc was flanked and protected by a small group of more breakable companions. How many more were hidden just beyond sight, they did not know. How many more would come when the horn on that orc’s side was sounded, they could not guess. They had to hope they had whittled down their force to something they could surmount. They had to hope that they would see the sun set that night.

“No. No. No! _Whatthe_ shit _ishedoing_ here?” Angry enough to have forgotten what language she was speaking, Fíli only understood pieces of her violent reaction.

The enemy of the line of Durin was smug as he sneered at them.

Fíli felt the ripple of anxious anger travel through his companions. With all fifteen of them, they had not been enough to face Azog, and now they were barely five.

“No _Imeanit_ . _Thatshouldbe_ Bolg. _HolymosesonamotorcyclewhatdidIdo_ ? You _arentsupposedtobehereyet_!”

The orc ignored her yelling, as did the others, and pointed his claw at Fíli.

“Toragid biriz.”

Fíli snarled in response.

“ _Ohhellno_. _Thesedwarvesaremine_. _Sodofffucker_. _AfteralltheshitIvegonethroughtokeep_ Fíli _alive? Hellno_.” Freya stepped closer to him, weapons clenched in her hands and spitting challenges at the orc. Bofur caught her arm to keep her from charging forward. She pulled at the grip, trying to take on a company of orcs alone. “No fuck it. _Itson_ you _scarredbaldasshat_!” Echoes of her warnings in Rivendell made Fíli glance over his shoulder at the river.

Orcs didn’t swim.

They did. At least, he hoped she knew how to swim. It hadn’t ever come up.

Azog’s hatred of the line of Durin didn’t have to end the lives of his companions.

The orcs would move any moment, and if they were going to try to get away, it had to be now. The majority of the group could make the river if someone was able to hold back the orcs. By the time that dwarf fell, the others would have been swept downstream to safety.

“The river?”

The dwarves glanced behind at the rocky edge that led to a no doubt rock-filled river.

That was when the orcs decided to attack.

Both his blades swung up to catch the first of them across the stomach. Bombur ran the spear through the throat of the one coming up on Frey’s back as Balin and Bofur took on the largest of them.

They would have to peel away one at a time. They would need to give some kind of signal. And Fíli had no way to stop and think as he lunged back from the blade that would have caught his leg. Which made it harder. Substantially so.

Unlike the previous attacks where they had been harried and herded along, beset by just enough attackers to make it seem a threat, this time the orcs were not leaving any gap or chance.

They were also trying to cut them off from the river.

Sore and struggling to think beyond the next sweep of a blade, Fíli noticed a more horrifying element.

The orcs weren’t aiming to kill. Fíli watched one pull a blow that would have felled Balin. Another was playing with Freya. If it had wanted her dead, she would be already. Instead, with malicious laughter in the background, they were being captured. Durin or not, fate or not, prophecy be damned, Fíli would not let them die so he could have a chance to end his family's enemy.

He feinted at the next orc, and used the resulting stumble to knock a hole in their line. Balin’s head snapped up at the shouted khuzdul, and the old warrior signalled back in iglishmek that it was a stupid plan.

Concise, and punctuated by his dispatching of another warg, Fíli cursed in reply. Balin did not have to like the plan to retreat. He only had to support it. They could make it to the water, if they moved now.

Balin glanced over Fíli’s shoulder, and his face fell into exasperated panic.

Fíli had seen that look directed at him and Kíli enough times to know what had just happened behind him.

Something monumentally stupid.

And he was right.

Freya was advancing. Or, maybe she was just allowing the orcs to lead her toward Azog. Or maybe she hadn’t even noticed what was happening.

She was, more than the others, on her last legs. She was past the point of rationality and safety, and had clearly gone into a battle rage.

Yet more excellent timing on her part.

And he hadn’t had half a minute’s pause to deal with her last instance of poor judgement.

“Freya! River!”

“River?” She shouted back, asking for a definition as she tried not to get grabbed.

Two more orcs, pushed back from the terrifying whirl of death that was Bombur and Bofur back to back, were joining their companion in taunting her. Fíli kicked down his opponent, killed it, and started moving toward her.

“Fast water Freya!”

She clipped one of the orcs in the hand with her hammer, disarming it.

“River is fast water.” He repeated as he reached her, yanking her back from her effort to go after the vulnerable orc.

“No. Azog _ishereearlyandIdontknowwhatshappening_. _But_ I _amdone_ Fíli.”

He kept the newly arrived warg at bay and tried not to scream at her.

He managed to get to her opposite side, and began to corral her toward the riverbank despite her protest.

“Go with Balin!”

“You go with Balin!”

“Freya!”

“Fíli!”

She slipped past him and buried the axe into the warg’s side. It fell howling, and she landed a second blow in its neck.

“Azog is here.” She spat it at him as she rose, a hint of apology hiding beneath her rage. “I need help to dead Azog.”

Half a second’s calm in the skirmish let him really look at her. Whatever she had seen, whatever she knew, weighed heavily on her. Fury and frenzy and fear were flickering in her features. Centered on Azog.

Balin was going to kill him.

He nodded. “Idiot.”

Frey’s face split with a manic grin as she laughed and spun to the troops waiting for Azog’s command. “ _Whatareyouwaitingforyoubastards_? _Worriedaboutgettingasunburn_?”

“Rayad? Id-ân?” Balin yelled behind them.

“I am a Durin.” He apologized to them all. He would not turn away from this and leave the scourge of their line to continue to harry them after all. If they fell, it would save his kin from this fight.

It would save Thorin and Kíli and his amad.

His left arm was aching. His legs burned from exertion. His eyes stung. His mind was clouded by lack of sleep.

Their chances were slim and dwindling the longer they waited. Azog would not travel with a small force.

There was still the river behind them.

If this gambit went poorly, they had no eagles to save them. With luck, he could hope to get some of them -- to get her -- into the river. She would find the others somehow, and use what she knew to ensure the reclamation of Erebor.

He really hoped she knew how to swim in case he had to fling her into the rapids.

Fíli wasn’t going to watch her die here though.

“And Durin do not run from fights.” She replied, voice steely. Three dwarven rumbles echoed her as they moved closer, through the two remaining wargs, but Fíli didn’t care, busy splitting his gaze between her and their opponents.  

The phrase she had nearly gotten right was his uncle’s. It had been repeated, chanted, pounded into the very iron of his being, and it had been Thorin more than any other that had taught him that the indomitable will of dwarves was unstoppable. That spectre as much as the stories of his slaughtered forebears was the goad that urged him onward.

Freya nodded, eyes alight, and, at his side, fell into a battle stance. Such as it was.

“Idiot.” She whispered.

“Idiot.” He returned under his breath. He didn’t need to look again to know she had a tiny grin turning up one corner of her mouth. From beneath his exhaustion, he felt a flare of determination.

The five of them braced on each other’s strength from their places strung along the glade, took fate in hand, and met their fate.

 

* * *

 

Floating down a river was more boring than Kíli had expected. The current handled the movement, not that Kíli could have steered the various barrels if he had tried. The sky was darkening. The water was chilly, his boots were trying to drag him down, and despite the multiple warnings, he hadn’t seen anyone or anything watching him.

He had ducked underwater as the barrels passed through the unguarded elven gate, but that was as much for his own amusement as anything else. He had climbed onto one of the empty barrels -- he thought it was empty, no one answered when he knocked. That was on a calmer section of the river. It had been a good decision since the rapids had been intermittent problems ever since.

Bilbo would not have done well.

Scratch that. Bilbo would have drowned, unless he was infinitely more stubborn than Kíli gave him credit for.

He groaned as the river bashed him against another rock at the tail end of a patch of rapids. A glance ahead confirmed that the next stretch was at least slightly slower.

Or not.

He could see a mess of whitewater and jutting stones at the edge of visibility.

Ears attuned to any sound that might prompt him to duck under water, Kíli heard a clang of metal before he knew where to look.

He gulped in the deepest breath he could, about to slip beneath the surface when he heard a second sound. A voice bellowed a battle cry, and though it sounded more furious than when they had practiced in the woods as dwarflings, there was no denying that it was Fíli.

All the air in his chest caught, unwilling to move in either direction as he searched the visible banks.

He didn’t see Fíli. He didn’t see the others. The river was sunken into the ground here, with ledges and walls of dirt blocking his sight of what was occurring. What he could see was an orc’s corpse lying near the water up ahead. There were barely seconds in which to think. Tauriel’s warnings came first, and loudest. Thorin’s fear for Kíli’s life followed soon after. But he heard another dwarven cry, and made up his mind.

Letting go of his raft, he swam toward the shore, letting the current pull him downstream as he fought to get to shallower water.

He reached it a few steps from the fallen orc, and took up its shoddy blade as he scrambled past it. The narrow bank was at the base of a steep incline.

Thought and fear pushed away by instinct and weeks of anxiety; Kíli hauled himself up, soaking wet and barely armored.

They were all alive.

But unlikely to remain so.

Outnumbered three to one that he could see, the orcs were trying to cage them. He could not see any injury, but he could not see them much at all. He could hear them. The bellowing roars of his kin were fierce. The answering shrieks of the orcs were taunting. The growls and snaps of the wargs that lingered on the fringes of the group were anticipatory.

All of it turned to chaos as he charged into the fray. Orc blades were pathetic brittle things, but they were more than enough to gash open exposed flesh.

“Nadad!” he greeted, not stopping his smile as he slammed the blade into a orc leg and closing the last distance.

“Kíli?” Fíli wasn’t the only voice that shouted his name, but it was the one that mattered. Not that they could stop fighting. Dramatic reunions and a much needed hug would have to wait until after they had cleared the field of enemies. He pivoted in place at a malevolent chuckling, and saw Azog, arms outstretched, parting the fighters as he approached them. There were small slashes on his arms and legs; he had been in the fight already.

No wonder Fíli hadn’t fled.

“Taud Durinul u mat.”

Fully healed, his side twinged.

Azog had been in the fight, and Kíli had not been there to protect him.

“Agh dugpon mesg u zagh.”

“Fíli, tabsinatiyanmat.”

He couldn’t understand why the others hadn’t forced Fíli to already. They were outnumbered. They were ill-armored. By the look of it, the fight had started by the river. They could have escaped, they could have gotten to safety. The line of Durin would address Azog another day.

“ _Donteventhinkaboutityouuglywhore_. _Thesearemine_.”

Frey was behind his brother, mismatched weapons as filthy with ichor as she was, deranged and moving to challenge the pale orc.

There was something shadowed in Fíli’s eyes when he looked up, some weighty darkness that the forest seemed to have pressed upon him. He nodded, and ordered, “Id-ân. Ishiê. Diya.”

It echoed sharply in Kíli’s skull, but he understood.

Scowling a silent threat that Fíli had better include himself in the plan, Kíli spun back to the enemies that had closed the trap around them after his charge. Balin seemed to have noticed the plan, and joined him. Bofur and Bombur fought together at the third point of the triangle, and yelled a khuzdul affirmation before pressing to make an escape.

Frey and Fíli were the farthest from the water, seemingly determined to meet Azog no matter the cost. With several orcs dead, and the path easier to cross, Fíli moved to the far side and shoved their troublesome companion to Kíli.

She stumbled into him, but was rounding to go back, furious and cursing as soon as she found her feet. Kíli caught her arm and dragged, eyes tracking back to Fíli to assure him he could now retreat as well. So, he was watching when the brutal claw crashed into his shoulder and threw him to the earth. He was watching as blades dropped from from slack fingers and Azog loomed tall.

“Gakh matdurinul su.”

A stabbing shock blasted him as he wrestled with instinct and rational thought.

Balin suffered no such delay.

The old dwarf that had mentored them both, that had taught them both languages and diplomacy, was already moving. Azog caught Fíli by the head, lifting until his feet left the ground. Azog’s warg stepped between Balin and it’s master, and a gutted scream of Fíli’s name split the air wrought with horror.

Kíli lunged to catch her as she ran, flinging an arm around her chest, and pulling her close.

The orc looked up, past the fight between Balin and the warg, and sneered at her.

Frey was clawing at his hand, trying to get free, “ _Nonononogoddamitno_. _Notagain_! Kíli _letmego_! Fíli!”

Her frenetic struggles stood counter to his inability to move or breathe or look away. Fíli was staring back at them desperately. Kíli didn’t know what he was desperate for though. If he’d had his bow he could have taken the shot, and damn the risk of letting go of her. Damn the risk of hitting his brother. He could do it, he could end this fight if he had his bow. Instead he had a weak blade and a useless magic ring.

She froze without warning, and faster than Kíli could wonder why, he felt that ring slip off his finger.

The shock of her vanishing loosened his grip, and Kíli felt her pull away.

It loosed the inaction in him as well.

Balin crippled the warg and pointed his sword at the orc.

Azog looked back to Fíli, shaking him and bringing up the claw to hold beneath his throat as threats were growled. Dazed, and no doubt in pain, Fíli was twisting, trying to get free.

Bombur and Bofur were facing down a cadre of enemies, and despite their shouts and frenzied battling, they could not escape. Balin and Kíli could not get close enough to land a blow without Azog slaughtering Fíli.

The roar that tore from the orc’s mouth was more scream than threat. The slash across his torso bloomed in sudden black blood.

Fíli was dropped as Azog cast about for his attacker. The claw opened a cut down Fíli’s face as he fell, but the dwarf was crawling for a sword the moment he hit the ground. His second blade was nowhere to be seen. Kíli reached him as Balin tried to engage the orc, but the fight with his unseen attacker, and it could only be Frey, was too erratic. Balin blocked a blow from a crony coming to Azog’s aid as more orcs boiled out of the trees, and Fíli moved his weapon to his off hand. His main sword arm was slung feebly at his side from the strike to his shoulder.

So Kíli stepped to his brother’s right side after a single moment of contact between clasped hands, and they fought together.

The next time Azog roared it was in triumph, but there was nothing Kíli could see.

While his victorious sneer was still in place, an axe appeared, lodged deep in his thigh. He collapsed as blood welled along the head of the weapon, and drew dark viscous lines over pale skin. Another slash of black appeared crossing the first on his chest, shallower this time.

The orcs swarmed.

Protecting their leader, they pushed back the dwarves, shrieking, and began dragging him into the trees. Retreating, and not bothering to fight, the orcs were vanishing.

It was a blessing. They did not have the numbers to survive that fight.

He saw one fall with no one nearby it, clutching its stomach, and a second fell when its face cracked open at the ear.

“Frey!” Fíli shouted it as a command, not a plea. She reappeared with one hand in a fist, and Fíli’s sword in the other, snarling over her shoulder, head tucked down, and eyes aglow. She could not seeing anything but the red haze of battle. Bofur and Bombur rushed forward, yelling entreaties, and Kíli could only wonder at what had happened in the last weeks.

His brother ran as the pair cut her off from her clear intention to pursue the orcs.

“ _Getoutoftheway_. _Imgoingtowatchthatcockstuffedcuntdie_.”

Fíli reached for her shoulder, and it was only training that brought his vambrace up in time. She spun the weapon again, with more finesse than she had shown before, catching Fíli’s other arm. Frey tripped him, and got past the circle of dwarves. All four chased after her without a trace of anything except loyalty and concern. Bombur caught her first, his speed always a surprise. It was Fíli that disarmed her, a single strike with the flat opening her hand. Bofur then tackled, catching her in a hold she couldn’t escape.

Battle fever.

She thrashed a moment against the miner’s chest, cracking her head into Bofur’s as she did. The dwarf was unfazed, and continued to mutter calm words to her. She shuddered and went slack in the space of a breath.

When she managed to look up her eyes were horrified. “Fíli?”

“I am fine.” He assured as Bofur released her, but she fell back a step, shaking her head.

The quiet was oppressive after the battle they had just concluded, and his heartbeat still pounded in his ears. Kíli saw her take a few more steps, staring at the ground where Bilbo’s ring was nestled in the dirt. When she slumped on a rock by the edge, something passed between Fíli and the others that Kíli didn’t understand.

He didn’t need to.

What they had survived surmounted the discomfort of time spent in elvish cells by miles. Adrenaline was giving way to terrified relief, and Kíli scarcely held himself up when Fíli dragged him into a fervent one armed embrace.

“Your arm?”

“I’ll be fine. You?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“The others?”

“Most likely to Laketown by now.”

“So why are you--”

“That’s a very long story, nadad.”

“I have your bow.”

“You are my bow.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you soaking wet?”

“Also a long story.”

“Do you have any short stories?”

“Do you?”

Fíli made a hysterical sound, “No.”

They giggled, and held on tighter.

“I think your marlûna may have killed Azog.”

“I think so too.”

“Not denying it, anymore, I see.”

“Shut it, nadad.”

They hadn’t moved, just held onto each other and mumbled into shoulders. They were both shaking, and neither could keep the emotion out of their voice, so they spoke in soft creaks and crackles. It would never be mentioned. They were in their own world, and Kíli was certain that the fears he’d obsessed over were the same ones Fíli had. Having to tell their mother. Having to go on without the other. Having no chance to say goodbye.

“If yer all done with the reunion over there?”

“No.” Kíli mumbled petulantly, content to ignore Bombur.

“Rayad.” Balin’s voice, and that word, was enough to motivate them. They separated, though Fíli was still leaning on Kíli a bit. Bofur was standing beside Freya, protecting her, there was no other way to term it. Bombur and Balin were standing side by side in a loose battle pose, guarding the princes against the new arrival.

Kíli shook his head, and shook it again, but no, his vision did not change.

Tauriel was standing there, dressed in armor, and carrying as many weapons as Fíli with a miniscule smile.

“I see you’ve found your bow, Kíli.” His laughter confused the other dwarves. “And I seem to have arrived late. Have you any wounded?” Her tone turned serious at the end.

The fragment of the company, seeing Kíli’s casualness, checked themselves and found only minor injuries; nothing that could not wait. Kíli was sure his side would be marvelously bruised by the river’s tossing, but it would need no attention. His brother was already regaining feeling, and rolling his fingers experimentally. Fíli gestured, and Bofur assured him that Frey was only addled. They would all sport a rainbow of bruises, but nothing needed to be immediately addressed. 

Tauriel nodded and surveyed the woods behind them.

“You cannot stay here.”

“That part was a wee bit obvious, even to us, elf.”

“ _Hernameis_ Tauriel. _AndIthinkImnowofficiallyuseless_. _Ivegotnoideawhatllhappennow_. _Istabbed_ Azog _Ithink_. Tauriel _ishere_. _Itsalldownthetoilet_.”

Kíli smirked at Tauriel’s flustered look. They had all adapted to Frey’s foreknowledge making sudden name-based appearances.

“Tauriel is how we escaped nadad.”

“Another long story?”

“Very.”

Fíli straightened, and inclined his head toward her, “Then you have my thanks. You plan to travel with us?”

“I know your quest, and your destination. If I am welcome, I wish to join you.”

“Do you know how to reach Laketown?” She nodded once, “Then you are more than welcome to join us.”

With the sun sinking to the horizon, Kíli fell into step beside the elf, and they began to walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy. 10k chapters just take longer. That's all there is to it. It just takes longer. And this one has had about nine different plot changes, because I'm indecisive.  
> If you have questions, I try to answer everything in the comments, and this chapter may have raised some. I delight in every single one of them. 
> 
> Just in case its not common knowledge: according to Tolkien, dwarves are 'too solid to turn invisible' while wearing the ring. (Thanks Tigris for reminding me I forgot this note!) and when I find the source, I'll add it here. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  mibilkhagsul ufâr : Tree fucking traitors  
> id-ân : the river  
> tabsinatiyanmat. : we have to run  
> Ishiê. Diya. : Help me. Her  
> marlûna : lady love
> 
>  
> 
>  **Black Speech**  
>  Toragid biriz : bring him to me  
> Taud Durinul u mat. : two durins to kill*  
> Agh dugpon mesg u zagh. : And the little wet rat from the mountain*  
> Gakh matdurinul su. : Three dead durins now
> 
> * starred translations are weak. I made them using a combination of the black speech dictionary, Midgaardasmal, and by bastardizing some sindarin words to fill in holes.


	20. What Happens in Laketown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are pleasant and enjoyable for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get overwhelmed every time I look at the stats on this. I get overwhelmed whenever someone flails and yells in a comment. I get overwhelmed when someone makes something (Like Rae did:[Freli 8track list](8tracks.com/attic-salt/frey-a-character-study))  
> I just cannot get over how amazing you people are, which is why I just keep writing more and more for you. You're wondrous and the absolute best. Thank you for being patient. I have a new job, and they frown on me writing smut at work. 
> 
> Oh, also, fyi. Smut ahead. ;D

 

Newest plan: Snag a bag of food from the house’s kitchen, shove the king into the lake as he made doe eyes at their burglar, tie his brothers to the first horse or pony or damned pig he could find that could take the weight, and march the lot of them off to the south east.

There were dwarves there.

Nori could find them.

Then he could rob them.

And he would never have to travel by barrel again.

That was the plan.

And it was a good plan.

To be enacted directly after he ate the rest of the fish stew.

The littlest of the children had given him the bowl, and Nori was generally considered to be a feelingless excuse for a dwarf, but not even he could find it in himself to disappoint her. She was the housekeeper’s youngest. Sweet curls that almost matched his hair, guileless eyes, and a firm set to her jaw that had made it clear he was to both eat the stew, and behave himself.

Children always knew he was a troublemaker.

Her mother ran this house for the Master of the Town.

Disgusting man.

Several kinds of disgusting in fact. Visually repugnant. Emotionally deficient. Morally lackadaisical. And coming from Nori, that last was a serious condemnation.

So Nori was eating the stew.

It was rather good.

Then it would be on to his plan. If he was feeling especially magnanimous, he would detour briefly towards the woods, see if he couldn’t find Bofur and add him to the collection of dwarves tied to the horse/pony/pig. The others could sod off.

“Eat the blasted soup, Thorin!”

Nori popped his head up to stare at their resident hobbit, who was shouting, arms akimbo, at their dull witted leader.

“I, and everyone else in this room agree that we need to find the others, but you won’t find anyone if you eat nothing and fall over from exhaustion when we haul off back to the woods. Don’t try that look on me, you butterless squash of a dwarf, and eat your soup! We can’t go running off again until we recover from those confounded barrels. We’ve taken a single day to try and recover and restock, they’ve been there near a month without needing us. Now. Eat. Your. Soup.”

Thorin took a petulant bite.

Ori, ensconced safely with Dwalin to guard him, queried, “Butterless squash?”

Bilbo simply glared, took another bowl from the daughter, and mumbled an answer that was suspiciously sindarin sounding.

Ori ducked his head back to the table, even as Dwalin puffed up next to him.

“Those barrels were your idea.”

“Would you rather I return you to Thranduil’s prison, Dwalin? Would you rather sit and wait while I think of a more comfortable departure method? How about you Master Oakenshield, would you like to return? It might put us behind on finding your nephews, on finding the others, but at least you won’t have had to suffer any indignity. Hm?”

Half of them bristled, and half of them cowered.

Bilbo deflated.

Laketown was going marvelously.

If measured solely in terms of efficacy, Bilbo’s plan had been spectacular. Nori had to admit that. His hair might never recover, and all of their extra clothing and weapons reeked of apples, but, they were free, alive, and closer to their goal.

The young prince’s absence was less encouraging. Thorin had announced rapidly that he had asked Kíli to slip away for his safety, but had said it with a grimace.

That bargeman hadn’t commented on it.

That bargeman.

It took a special sort of person to haul a cluster of supposedly empty barrels onto a bank, and not scream like a nutted elf when Nori popped out of one of them. Nori had liked him immediately. Even the arrow at his face hadn’t reduced that. Everyone needed to be able to defend themselves. Nori would probably have killed anyone that had gone springing out of a barrel right in front of him, and asked questions of the corpse.

But then, Nori was not a particular fan of surprises.

After exercising his silk tongue a bit, Bard helped him pry the lids off the other barrels.

Glóin had been placed upside down, and came out redder than a tomato.

Thorin had undergone such a range of reactions in the first few seconds it must have given him a headache. Relief. Panic. Love. More relief. Anger. Majesty. Panic again. And then remorse as he noticed in certainty that Kíli was nowhere to be seen.

Bard had been happy to bring them to town for a few coins, and happier still to keep his mouth shut for a few more.

Thank Mahal they’d thought to grab their weapons.

They had thanked the man at the dock, parted ways, and marched off, proud as you please, to find the Master of the town.

Bilbo had been the one to do the talking there.

Well, Bilbo and Thorin.

Bilbo was the one who did the talking that helped them. Thorin did rather more of the reverse.

No matter.

It had been dark by the time they arrived, and they’d had little choice but to accept the offered house and food. The Master seemed set on pleasing them.

Some sort of feast was being planned, but in a town this poor, such a thing could not be readily assembled. There was hardly anything worth stealing on the miserable clutch of waterlogged ramshackle huts on the lake. Not that Nori was feeling sour about that.

In the morning they had planned to return to the forest. The men decided they needed to stay for a proper feast first, after they managed to assemble one. Current guess was another day or two. In the meantime, they were recovering, and packing fresh supplies for when they tromped back into an accursed, infested forest.

Not Nori, but they didn’t need to know that yet.

His whole family was alive, and he planned to keep them that way.

He had expected that the mood would be like a night before a battle, grim determination. Nope. It was just grim. None of them really thought the others were alive. They were just going back to confirm that, and to find Kíli.

So. Safe to say that when the door was flung open and five filthy dwarves tumbled through, they were caught a tad unaware. Enough, in fact, that no one moved or made a sound for a solid three seconds aside from Bilbo’s spoon clattering against the bowl.

“Why’ve ya got such long faces? Ale no good here?” Bofur chirped.

Confusion gave way to chaos.

Fíli and Kíli would have tackled their uncle if he hadn’t moved faster than them.

Bifur crashed into his kin, shouting enthusiastically. Glóin, Óin and Dwalin just about scooped Balin off the ground. Nori watched his brothers embrace and then begin hugging any and everyone that was near them. Bilbo got dragged into the snarl of Durin hugging that had also appropriated Dwalin and Balin.

Nori stayed outside it.

Breathing an internal sigh at the return of their companions, some of his determination to depart wavered. Not all of it: he wasn’t a fool. Some of it whispered away though. At the least, the part about detouring to save Bofur, great lump he was, was gone.

Shouted questions were rising, and the newly arrived group hesitated. They clustered, battle companions, utterly trusting each other, and, Nori noted, blocking the door.

That was when Nori noticed that only the five of them had burst through the door, and tried to judge by Fíli’s stance where she was. All five of them were spattered in blood, weary, and bearing scuffs and cuts, the deepest of which was across Fíli’s cheek. They’d been through something a bit rougher than a stint in jail.

Wasn’t a great sign.

Fíli didn’t look mournful though. And Bofur wasn’t exultant.

Thorin repeated the question the others had chorused, in the calm, “How did you escape the forest ingadân?”

The princes glanced to each other, then to the other three.

“We had some help.”

Kíli started talking.

He simply didn’t stop. He just blabbered on about his time in prison. Getting quiet when he explained how he and an elf had discussed their quest, and louder when he ploughed over Thorin’s indignation, he narrated what had passed. Listening, Nori could tell that Kíli was leaving something out. Not quite a lie, more like when a mark tried to claim they only had a few coppers on them, but had a bag of gold.

Somewhere around the time that he sold out Bilbo’s complicity in the plan and cacophony resumed, Nori spotted Freya, lurking in the darkness just outside the door, next to someone else he didn’t know. She looked worse than the day after the trolls. His hatred of Mirkwood ticked up by a few more notches. Cheek twitching while she shook her head and gritted her teeth, she looked, well, like herself. A month lost in the forest with at least one dwarf that had wanted to kill her, and she had come out the other side looking like the lass they’d met in Eriador.

Maybe that was the better way.

Either case, she wasn’t dead. And that was great news.

Still half following Kíli’s story, Nori pivoted at the phrase ‘magic ring.’ Kíli dropped it into Bilbo’s grateful hand.

Apparently their hobbit had a magic ring that didn’t work on dwarves. That would have been the most important part of the story, if Fíli hadn’t begun speaking right after. The boys had always known how to maximize the impact in tales of their exploits.

The others had gotten cut off, intended to find them with the elves, and instead been chased by orcs and wargs and spiders for nearly a month. Boring food in an elvish prison didn’t sound oh-so-bad anymore. Fíli said it in a rush, not rambling as his brother had. He used as few words as possible.

“Then Azog arrived.”

Thorin hissed a breath.

“It’s alright, indâd. He might be dead. At the least he’s badly hurt. I got to them as they were fighting,” Kíli interrupted, “and we were going to try to get away. But Azog got to Fíli. Grabbed him up by the neck and hoisted him in the air.”

Clearly the tale had a happy ending since the dwarf in question was standing right there, but everyone tensed at that.

“And you saved your brother.” Thorin breathed.

“Actually, Balin charged the filth.”

The company turned to the eldest of the company, none prouder than Dwalin, but Balin held up his hands and demurred. “I just stalled him for a bit brother, no need to go looking like that.”

“Then who? Bofur?” Dwalin rumbled.

All five dwarves got a bit sheepish; Nori saw the answer before they spoke and started cackling. When everyone turned to his seat at the table, he managed, “Her, weren’t it?”

Kíli’s smile was huge as he launched into the rest of the story.

Nori knew he was right about her. The others just had taken their time catching up with his wisdom. Bofur in particular had been an obstinate twerp.

Even Bofur seemed to agree with him now. That left Dori and Thorin as the holdouts of mistrust if Nori was any judge. Dori’s was founded in confidence she’d get herself and others killed more than an true dislike. Thorin’s was -- actually, Nori couldn’t rightly explain Thorin’s instant virulent hatred of the lass.

“Where is she?” Thorin asked, and there was almost a trace of concern there..

The princes winced, and, in chorus, answered, “Them.”

“Them?”

“Well after she showed up in the woods and helped us escape and everything else we couldn’t just send her back, Uncle!”

Thorin growled inarticulate khuzdul curses.

Looking about ready to run off at the first opportunity, the ginger elf got half shoved, half dragged into the room. Kíli’s introduction did little to help ease the tension. Tauriel straightening her spine and giving a half bow, accented with a respectful nominative did better.

In an echo of the past, Nori watched Bofur reach into the hidden dark, and haul Freya into sight.

Nori wasn’t the only dwarf to think yelling was imminent from one of the pair staring at each other, though which would start it was anyone’s guess. The princes shifted awkwardly. The company shifted awkwardly. If they’d had time, Glóin would have opened a purse on the outcome of the meeting.

Instead, Thorin stalked forward, and swept her into a hug. Attempted to. She was behind Bofur the second she saw him moving, and it worked for a moment. Then Bofur stepped aside,  and Thorin froze.

She had her arms held up, placating, but her voice was snarly. “ _Stopthatyourefreakingmeout_. _Imnot_ Bilbo. _Idontgetredemptionhugs_. _Igetattacked_. _Igetthrownofftreesforcrapssake. Igetdangledoffrocks. Alsoprettysuretheassholeisntdead. Ifthatswhattheytoldyou._ Kíli _talkstoofast. Whoknowswhathesaid._ ”

Their missing companions were calm, and notably leaning toward her. Balin went so far as to step closer to Thorin.

“ _Plusyouarentsupposedtobehere! Youresupposedtopopupatoilet. Hangoutwiththebardlings. Everythingsallcockedup. Whatdidyouidiotsdo? Andhowlongwillittakeformetofixit?_ ”

“Uhhh…..” Bombur dragged as she ducked behind him, leaning against the door, “All this love and forgiveness is grand, but I don’t suppose there’s some more of whatever it is I can smell right now?” His stomach rumbled concurrence, “Well, but it’s been awhile since we had a proper meal.”

It broke the spell.

They reclaimed seats, bowls, spoons, and their good cheer. Stories were told with effusive praise, each of the four dwarves trying to out boast on another’s behalf. Ale appeared, and began to rapidly disappear. The newcomers vanished one at a time to throw cold water in their faces and scrape off the worst of the mess covering them.

The elf they brought with them sat silent, and stoic, and polite, sharing little smiles with Kíli that Nori would be teasing him about starting in the morning. He did have some decency, he’d give them a short reprieve. A few hours.

Balin leaned into Glóin, whispered while the banker’s eyes widened, and Nori watched as two more betting pools were opened.

That, naturally, sent another round of betting flitting about the table communicated in furtive iglishmêk. Bifur’s bet on the crown prince was large, unflinching, and placed on confirmation before they left the town.

After the betting settled, was an attempt to assess whether their hobbit-burglar’s inability to get them out their cells was because of preoccupation with Thorin’s trousers and what was in them. This was likewise done furtively; no need to anger the pair just when they’d found good moods again. But all the same. Bilbo had spent weeks looking about the place and found nothing. Nori felt it important to point out that Tauriel had lived in the palace longer than Bilbo had been alive at all, and they should give him a break. Then he looked over, saw the hobbit watching Thorin like he was a fresh pie, and conceded the point to Óin.

The Master had been happy to curry favor, and the ale flowed freely. It seemed to be the only plentiful thing on the lake other than the stink of fish and rampant poverty.

The dwarves were boisterous as they celebrated, like they always were. Laughter was louder in their relief, and insults chased the praise. All of it said from love, of course. The elf was awkwardly seated near the fire watching it happen. Nori spotted concerned glances flick between the recently arrived, and saw them all relax when Freya reappeared, with some of the filth washed away.

The little girl who had been helping to serve started yawning and was taken home. Thankful, but eager to be unwatched, they encouraged her mother to go as well. They had ale and leftover soup, and bread; they would be more than fine until the morning.

Nori refilled an oversized pair of tankards and set one in front of Bofur.

“So. Not dead yet I see. If you need a bit of help with that, you let me know.”

“Aye, just had a pleasant little walk through the woods. And yourself, I heard you were back in your natural habitat.” Nori glared, but without any venom. “Well, it’s true. Don’t think you’ve spent more time in any place except sittin behind bars.”

There wasn’t any denying it.

So Nori nicked the pipe out of Bofur’s pocket and spun it between his fingers, smirk climbing higher with each rotation.

“Yer a right bastard.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever said otherwise, Bof.”

“An’ Im gonna want that back.”

“We’ll see. Maybe I’m planning somewhat else.”

Bofur heard the lilt of insinuation and quirked up an eyebrow til it vanished under his hat. The miner was a proper bastard most of the time, obstinate and protective, but was also about the sweetest thing Nori had ever met. That particular combination was a weak point in Nori’s affections. Bofur fought like his own mother was at risk. He also kissed like they might be dead in the morning.

At least, he had behind Beorn’s house.

All decisive and intense and still leaving plenty of chances for Nori to bugger off. Even kept his hands to places that were mostly appropriate. Proper gentleman, despite his ignoble upbringing.

Nori had spent much of the last month contemplating what Bofur might do if he hadn’t been made into a midday meal for a spider the size of a bear. There hadn’t been much else to do when he wasn’t listening to the others bolster spirits back and forth.

Bugger. His mind had gone meandering.

And by the glint in his eyes, Bofur had seen exactly where it went.

“You lot gotten any rest?”

“Some.”

“Enough?”

“Hope so.” Bofur’s mischievous eyes narrowed in a flash at a sight behind Nori. “Fíli.” Nori watched as the pair communicated over him. Resignation and exhaustion and loyalty. Balin and Bombur saw it happening, and gestured questions.

“No. I’ll go.” Fíli interrupted with authority.

“Out the window on the left.”

“Thank you. Eat more Bofur, we can all fully bathe tomorrow. Rest is more important.”

“We aren’t lost anymore prince, ya don’t have to go fussing about my well being now.”

Nori recognized that look. Both looks. Bofur’s loyalty. Fíli’s leadership.

Then the prince was gone and Nori was watching Bofur stare. The bastard tracked Fíli’s movement out of the house, and out of sight.

It took longer than he thought, watching and admiring like that. When he caught himself, he realized that many of the others had already vanished off to beds. Kíli and the elf were still whispering softly. Dwalin and Ori were silent next to the fire with ale while Glóin rambled about his wife. Balin was headed for the stairs muttering about being too old for such nonsense anymore.  

Frey was a bit more missing than they wanted, but the rest had vanished off to sleep, and she was probably not dead.

“Did ya just send him off to find her?” Nori asked.

“Aye.” Bofur wasn’t even reluctant. “She tends to get herself in trouble when she wanders. Not that it stops her doin’ it.”

The stories that had been told had been engaging, but had really only told them about their first days and their last in the forest. The rest had been obscured for the sake of dramatics. That Bofur had changed his mind about her was testament to the fact that the days in between were far from empty.

“You watchin’ out for her?”

“Aye. Still don’t like the ibsên bar’gairuith.”

“Never said ya did.”

“An’ I still woulda rather had you or Dwalin out there with us. Or better yet, none of us locked in cells or running day and night from things as what want to eat ya.” Bofur yawned then. Not a little yawn. Oh no, this was a full body stretch and yawn. Just the last two days worth of adventure would have been exhausting, and Nork knew there was more to the story than a quick skirmish and a day and a half of jogging.

Nori decided to be a gentleman.

Never mind that his thoughts had been up Bofur’s knickers for the past month.

It hardly took any effort to get him up the stairs and to one of the rooms. Alright, fine. To get to Nori’s room. But only because Nori knew that there was a spare blanket in there as well as being plenty warm, and he could easily kip on the floor.

The happy garbled sound at the sight of the bed was a twin to the one that Nori had made yesterday.

Bofur shucked out of the filthiest of his clothes, and splashed some water on his hands to try and rid them of yet more of the dirt there. Lost cause. They’d all need a long soak in a bath. Or the lake. And a great deal of scrubbing before they turned into anything resembling clean. Nori certainly had.

Thinking back to the weight of the last day, and the way they had all been certain that the company that had survived so much had been broken; that oppressive pain radiating off of Thorin in particular, but also off Dwalin and Bilbo, at the loss of a third of the company, had been crippling.

Now here they were. All alive. Unless Freya had managed to find trouble in the last quarter hour. Actually. She might have. Didn’t go well to underestimate her capacity to do something dumb. But that was Fíli’s problem currently.

Nori snuck behind Bofur to steal a blanket off the foot of the bed, already deciding that the wall by the door was closest to the chimney and likely to be the warmest. Bofur caught him at it, and laughed, “Can’t break the habit can ye? Gotta steal somethin. Just a rule, that.”

“Jus’ don’t wanna freeze.”

Bofur was a few steps past charming when he was trying to puzzle something out. Every thought played over his face. Every reaction and emotion and consideration was visible. Bofur would be a terrible spy. That made him an admirable dwarf. “This is your room ain’t it?” Nori nodded. “An you were plannin’ on sleepin’ where?” Nori glanced to his prechosen patch of floor.

Thinking wasn’t Bofur’s suit.

Decisions were.

Bofur was always decisive about these things. Didn’t matter that the last time they’d gone from throwing punches to kissing in the space of a breath. Bofur made decisions, and he made them well.

It shouldn’t have been so stunning when Nori found himself kissed to the point he stumbled backwards into the bed.

And yet.

They kissed like they were drowning, and for a dwarf that took such pride in his awareness of his surroundings, it was ridiculous that Nori had no idea where in the name of the Valar the majority of his clothes had just gone. Undertrousers and binder got left behind, and it was only due to the absence of his boots and weapons that Nori had to assume he had assisted at some point. No memory of it. Just a memory of whiskers and that damned hat.

Though, for all he knew, they’d been vanished off him by a helpful wizard.

Bofur, having already stripped out of the majority of his own, did little else.

The world tilted sideways, and Nori found himself on a bed, without Bofur.

That was only temporary.

He arrived with the stolen blanket a moment later, and an apology.

“I know what yer thinkin’ and it’s a lovely notion, not pretending otherwise, sounds like a delight, but I don’t think there’s any option for my next activity except for sleep.” He snuffed out the candle and sighed when Nori snaked an arm around him. “Happy to oblige you afterwards though.”

Nori snorted. Any obliging was likely to be on his end. Unless Bofur was carrying around more than just his normal trinkets and had a rather particular toy hidden in his coat. Nori doubted that. It would have been mentioned by now. He twisted his arm around to reach the tie on his binder to slacken it for the night. Bofur, eyes shut in the thin moonlight through the crack of the curtains, held him in place to prevent him, snuffling laughs into his moustache as Nori tried harder to reach.

Nori couldn’t move his arms back, but he could reach forward to pinch.

Next he knew, Bofur had slipped the knot for him and loosened the compression. When Nori settled closer, well aware that they’d not have done anything of the kind if they’d not thought the other one dead for the last month, Nori breathed deep.

Any amorous adventures were on hold after that.

Bofur definitely needed to take a bath first.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t as if they had never done this. While Bilbo may have suffered some confusion after a mild miscalculation in phrasing on Thorin’s part, both of them were well experienced.

It did not stop the way the air was thrumming. It did not stop they way that they had tripped over each other trying to let the other walk into the room first. It did not stop the fact that they had then stood some three paces apart, drinking the other in, wide awake and hopeful in a way they had not thought would ever happen again a few hours earlier.

In the space of an evening they had changed from tense and sniping each other, to devouring each other more than they did their meals.

Their heads were light with drink and lust. Their hands were shifting uncomfortably at their sides. It was something in the air. It was a little thread of knowledge wound around the fact that they had done a great many things but had not yet crossed this line. Boots and coats had been stripped off as they stared each other down, but they were both fit for public appearance. That couldn’t be borne.

Thorin was the first to respond, eyes watching Bilbo shift and tweak little smiles. It wasn't to say that he could not control himself, only that he no longer had to.

Two quick steps forward were enough to bring him in range of his hobbit.

After days of doubt, after weeks of denial, after months of self recrimination and censored confessions it was too important for Thorin not to continue.

He wanted.

Well. He wanted everything. He wanted to see what Bilbo would look like spread out beneath him, though, he was well aware that Bilbo was far more likely to climb atop him than he was to let himself be towered over.

Small, in everything but spirit.

And that spirit so outpaced Thorin's own will that it was difficult to ever imagine that it would falter.

So Thorin reached up to stroke fingers through Bilbo's hair, grown long on the journey. It was nothing like a dwarf's locks yet, but, if he could keep Bilbo nearby long enough, and away from scissors throughout, it was possible that he would be able to braid in symbols of his affection one day. A twinned braid to show their bond, and beads to show Thorin’s loyalty to him. A clasp marking him a dwarf friend for saving Kíli. A crown perhaps some day.

Maybe one day he would even manage to say aloud what he had wanted to for months.

Bilbo was watching him with a knowing arch to his eyebrows.

Maybe what he wanted was already known.

Ever impatient, Bilbo brought up his hands, tracing lightly over Thorin’s beard, before dragging him into a searing kiss.

While the others were missing, they could not have taken the time for this. It would have been unconscionable. They could discuss it. Thorin had taunted and teased Bilbo while trapped in a cell, but even if Bilbo had found a way inside, they could have done nothing with spectre of his missing kin above them.

The night before, they had fallen asleep in each other's arms in this bed, taut and preoccupied and clothed.

Now he had no such compunction.

The tension and fraught panic he carried began to melt as Bilbo pressed closer. It fell away in great chunks as nimble fingers did likewise to his clothing. He should return the favor, seek out bare skin and strip away the worn and dirty clothing that had once been proper hobbit garb. But he had his fingers in Bilbo’s hair, thumbs running up the shell of his ears and flicking past the points. It was a far better use of his time.

He moved his hands away only long enough to shed the coat and tunic at Bilbo’s tugged order. Then they were back and they were kissing once more, and the surreal sensation of peace was heady.

There had been little opportunity for Thorin Oakenshield, Durin’s heir and wandering blacksmith, to be calm and content in the last hundred and seventy years. It felt wrong. It felt as if he did not deserve it. As if it were simply on loan from another, and never really his.

He was guided to sit on the edge of the bed, stripped down to his underthings.

Bilbo tossed aside his shirt, and hoisted himself onto the man-sized bed. He straddled Thorin’s thighs, and caught his face, examining him with the pushiness and tender care that defined the hobbit.

“You are thinking too much. Why is it that you can never simply enjoy yourself? Why do you torment yourself with -- well whatever it is you’re thinking about now. The supports for the town collapsing and dropping us all in the lake maybe?” He spoke with barbed words, but pressed sweet kisses over Thorin’s face.

“I’m thinking of you.”

“And you’re frowning like that? I must be making a terrible hash of this. Should I try harder?” The teasing achieved its goal, and Thorin smiled up at him. “There you are. Now then, I seem to recall you having some very pleasant plans of what you were going to do to me as soon as you could, and I’ll never forgive you if you don’t take this chance to, what was it you said?”

Leave him unable to speak from pleasure.

His cheeks flushed at the reminder.

Shoving aside his doubt, he returned to the moment, and the expanse of skin before him. Bilbo was still soft and curved. He was thinner than he had been perhaps, but that was true of them all.

Bilbo was still a hobbit though, and the softness spoke of his gentle life. There were no great scars riddling his body, there were no inkings. Bilbo was himself, and proud enough in his body to grin with confidence when Thorin met his eye after savoring the sight. He rubbed his hands up Bilbo’s sides, down his back, and lower still, cupping at the threadbare trousers.

“I would not break my word to you.”

The remainder of their clothing did not survive long. There was a brief moment in which Bilbo scrambled off the bed to reclaim his lost trousers, and the vial of oil inside them, but otherwise the pair tangled about each other.

Blessedly clean as they had not been in months, he had nothing but joy to find in exploring every inch of skin. His hair was softer than a dwarf’s could ever be. His eyes were bright and laughing. He was eager and insistent, as he always was. When Thorin delayed taking the oil, enjoying himself with his mouth and hands, Bilbo threatened to do it himself.

Pretty as that image was, he was too much a dwarf, too possessive, to allow it.

If Bilbo had wanted to do the taking, Thorin would have been more than willing. Since his inclination tended the other way, Thorin was determined to do an excellent job of it.

Seated against the wall at the head of the bed, with Bilbo astride his lap, he ran slow circles around the furl of muscles between his cheeks, spreading the oil and gasping when it caused a slow grind to become a harsh thrust.

Bilbo noticed.

A moment later there were hands wrapped around his cock, stroking maddeningly slow.

So began a contest between them.

Thorin sank a finger in slowly, careful of causing harm, but aware of Bilbo’s mounting impatience. Bilbo in reply teased him with strokes and caresses so soft that Thorin twitched.

A second finger dropped his head to Thorin’s shoulder to the sound of a keening moan. That became an excuse to bite and suck and kiss and mark the skin there. His tattoos were explored again and again, interspersed with cut off pleas for him to go faster.

It was Bilbo’s fault for reminding him of his intent.

When he could move his hand easily, he thought to add a third finger. A reasonable nod to preparation and precaution and proportion. Mouth now at his ear, Bilbo hissed, “I swear to Eru you inexcusable lummox if you don’t take me now--”

“You are still tight.” He said after interrupting the threat with a kiss, “You are small, and I have not forgotten that.”

“And I,” He retorted, hands tightening, “am entirely aware of your size.”

Bilbo had the vial of oil a moment later, and had slicked Thorin from stones to leaking tip in three sumptuous drags of his palm. Seeing what was coming, Thorin added a third finger to be contrary, and was rewarded with a blissful moan as Bilbo’s mouth dropped open. He did not resist when his hands were batted away, just moved them to Bilbo’s waist and kissed him, tasting the anticipation in the tremors of his legs.

“I -- have wanted -- this -- for months.” He gasped as he arranged himself. Aligned, he tried to lower down, and whimpered when Thorin’s grip prevented him. “No. No. You awful dwarf. That isn’t -- that’s -- it’s not fair, Thorin. Please.”

Wriggling, pleading, he kissed Thorin into submission.

They were still joined at the mouth when he sank down, and they groaned into each other's open mouths at the sensation.

The world went white when Bilbo began to move.

Riding with more finesse than he’d shown before, Bilbo managed his own pleasure. Thorin struggled to find coherence in the tumult of sight and smell and feel of so much passion being enjoyed without shame. His hand found its way to Bilbo’s cock though, and stroked in counterpoint to the rhythm the hobbit set.

Tossing his curls off his face, Bilbo lifted his hands to Thorin’s broader shoulders and continued until his legs shook, and his muscles were exhausted.

They were both close, and little more would be enough to send them over the edge. Bilbo already had that high pink flush in his cheeks, and was wordlessly moaning each time he dropped his weight down.

Thorin moved his hands back to his waist, and supported him, thrusting up as his lifted and lowered the hobbit in his lap. Unattended, he was still leaking as he gasped and clung to the dwarf’s shoulders. The pleading was garbled and impossible to translate save for occasional words.  It was a glorious sound, backdropped by the wetter sound of their coupling.

Cheeks ruddy in the candlelight, mouth red and wet, eyes lost and desperate, Bilbo breathed out a phrase.

“My love.”

Thorin’s world went white again as he fell. Bilbo took himself in hand and followed moments later, just in time for Thorin to watch the way his face slackened and his head dropped back.

They sacrificed a pillow to the task of cleaning themselves, lazy slow swipes with a gaudy thing that the Men thought of as fancy. He pulled his hobbit closer, then closer still, then up to rest his head on his chest. Soft kisses landed over his heart over and over until sleep dragged him under.

As Thorin let his eyes close, it echoed that word, and he was designing beads in his mind when he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

Fíli looked down the next crosspath and finally spotted his quarry. He had only been wandering through the damn town for an hour, ignoring the questions from the few townspeople that had spoken to him. He was tired. He was still hungry. He wanted to head back and fall asleep clear through the next day, maybe two, and let everyone’s safety be his uncle’s responsibility.

However, it wasn’t just his own bias to be concerned, Frey really did have a habit of finding trouble.

It was like she went out of her way to attract it.

Today he was lucky. Instead of finding her lobbing rocks at foes or taunting wild beasts, she was sitting on the rail of a fence above a pigsty. Her feet were tucked behind the next rail down and she listed from one side to the other. She was paying no attention to anything except the sky.

The initial burst of relief was replaced with vexation.

The vexation was replaced with obligation.

She wasn’t injured. He knew that. He had checked some half a dozen times in the last day as they walked toward town. He had asked Bofur to check as well, and Kíli, without asking, had sent Tauriel over. None of them had spotted anything. She had locked in her reputation with them long ago, and they were not going to suddenly trust her assurances of health.

So, Fíli surveyed her once more.

Out of concern for her health. Obviously.

Covered in filth and mud, despite cleaning her hands and face, she seemed to be weighed down by it. Her shoulders were hunched. Her breathing was slow hisses in, and gasps back out. It almost sounded like restrained tears, not that he had ever really seen her cry. But he could see dark eyelashes flickering as she blinked rapidly. The faint light of the lamps and torches on the nearest houses lit her in amber and orange.

She was thinner than when they had first met, and he made a note to be sure she actually ate while in laketown. She’d been handed a bowl of soup at the loaned house, but he had not verified she had eaten. He should have. He didn’t know how broad she was meant to be, but it was better to err on caution, and extra servings.

One of the many nights they had sat up on watch, when he had struggled to look at the woods as he should, he had tried to guess her heritage. Her answers had been unintelligible.

He’d not ever met a Haradrim or any of the dwarvish tribes from that region, but it was his only guess on where she’d come from. Perhaps they were a slighter race; he had seen an illustration of the Haradrim, once. In the background had been a woman, fierce, black hair tied back in sleek complex braids, dark skin revealed in narrow seams and gaps of fabric. It was not quite Frey, but perhaps one of her parents was from the far south.

The hair was close. No, it could be with work. Nothing about her hair now could be called sleek.

He had been preoccupied in Mirkwood, with their hunters, and with her persistent attempts to get herself killed.

Now that they were free of the forest, she -- all of them, if he was honest -- needed to tend to their hair. Hers was… regrettable at present. She had tied it back in short triple braids on either side of her head shortly after they had been separated from the others. Balin had loaned her string to tie them off. They had reached just past her shoulders then. At this point they were so stiff with dirt, so snarled in themselves, that they were crooked puffs behind either ear festooned with the occasional twig. It would take hours to get it brushed through.

That was a less tortuous prospect than it had been on the other side of the mountains.

But the superficial had to wait.

He needed to find her proper armor. He needed to get her warmer clothes, stronger boots, weapons that would actually fit her hands, and rest without nightmares. At least one night’s worth, that was a priority.

He needed to convince her that all would be well, and he had to convince her that she had to take better care of her own safety. If she wouldn’t, he didn’t think he could let her near the mountain. Frey and Smaug needed to never be within sight of each other.

Fíli saw her push her shoulders back and rise up on her perch, settling into determination. A little quirk in her lips, visible in profile, caused an echo in his.

Frey was staring up at the sky’s broad swathe of stars, and as Fíli watched, she raised a little handful of plants, and bit off a mouthful.  

He snorted. “We have food Freya. Real food. You don’t have to eat that plant. Whatever it is.”

She didn’t bother turning, still engrossed by the stars.

“Athelas.”

He glanced at the bundle of greenery, and plucked out three stems of parsnip caught in the rest, tossing them into the water. “That one is poison. You will be sick with that. Can’t have you ill. Then who would be there to cause me nightmares?”

She frowned a moment, but didn’t answer him, just grumping to herself. “ _Okayfine_. I _mighthavesnaggedeverythingwithwhiteflowers_. _Couldntrememberwhat_ it _lookedlike_.” Then she crammed a ridiculous quantity in her mouth with a wince too miserable for him not to smile.

It was Frey: Furiously eating a bouquet of weeds was hardly the strangest thing she had done.

“Why?”

“ _Because_ I _putonsatanscostumejewelry,_ and _thedreamslastnightwere…_ _wellitaintgonnabeacakewalk_ Fíli. _Prettysure_ I _amgoingtokillsomeone. Hopefullynot_ Bilbo.” She said, still chewing. “Want?” He leaned back from the proffered shrubbery. Eyes turning a bit predatory, she pulled off a sprig and held it out to him.

“ _Itsgoodfor_ you Fíli. Is good. Kíli _isgoingtohavetoeatsometoo_. _Justincase_. I _donttrusttheringandheworeit_.” He pushed it away. “ _Fineturnintoa_ Nazgul _seeif_ I _carethen_. _Ohwhoam_ I _kidding? Totallywouldstilcare_. _Blitheringfuckingfandom_. _StupidPJandhishotdwarves_.”

If he had trusted the fence to support him, he would have joined her seat, but he made his peace with leaning against it, not quite close enough to be touching and waited out her short tirade. The hand not full of plant life was playing with the tattered rip in her trousers. It had to be from the tree. They’d never taken the time to repair it.

Finding her better clothing was rapidly climbing his list of priorities.

“Frey, you are are good? Not hurt? Azog didn’t--”

“I am fine. _Chubbythighstotherescue_. _Musclewouldhavebeenworse_. I _couldnthavewalkedthen_. _Fleshwoundthough_. _Notthatitdidnthurtlikehell_. And _notthat_ I _havemuchfatlefttoprotect_ me _leftafterthatstupidforest_. _Worstdietplanever_. _Absoluteworst_.”

She was pensive beneath the surface anger, maybe that was why she had slipped away from the dwarves’ more raucous reunion. She had been snappish since Azog, stroppy and miserable. He would have left her to it, but could not shake the instinct to keep her close.

With her track record there was probably a great beast living in the lake that she would challenge to a fight armed with nothing but a handful of plants.

“I _wish_ I _couldsaythat_ I _hatethisstupidawfulplacewithastraightface_.” Her voice broke the silence, a soft tone that sounded like their chats on watch; honest confession. He turned, startled by it, “ _Butholysweetluciferslunchbox_ , _thatsjustnottrue_. _Thisisthemostfun_ I _haveeverhad_ , Fíli. _Everinmylife_. _Ever_ Fíli. _Collegehighschoolsummercamp_. _Springbreak_. _Itsgotnothingonthis_. _Evenwiththe_ orcs and _thealmostdying_ and _thediarrhea_ and _thefactthat_ I _knowexactlywheretheringis_ and _haventstoppedthinkingabout_ it _since_ I _putthe_ fucking _thingon_. _PrettysurethisisthebestthingIveeverdone_. _And_ I _amonlysayingthisbecause_ you _dontknowwhatitmeans_ ... _but_ you _areabigpartofthat_.” Her tone shifted again at the end. It was new. Content was the closest thing he could think to call it. It looked very, very good on her.

She had turned to look at him saying it, and Fíli waited for her to realize that he couldn’t understand more than the overall nuance of her speech. Normally she would reiterate, and they would cobble their way to comprehension. Instead she cleared her throat, broke the moment and went on in her normal, disgruntled voice, “I _amgoingtobepissedas_ fuck _ifwhoeverbopped_ me _overherebops_ me _backoutagain_. _Thisistoomuchfuckingworktonotgetthevictoryparty_.”

“Freya--”

“Shhh Fíli. I _deserveavictoryparty_. _Also_ I _realizedsomething_. _Welldecidedsomething_. I see things, yes? I sleep, I see. _Bythewayteach_ me _morewordsforthat_. I _soundlikeanidiot_. _Anyway._ I see things. I say things. You and fourteen do things.”

“Fifteen, Frey.”

Surprising her into a sweet reluctant grin was a treat, and he leaned closer in anticipation of it. But she didn’t.

“Fourteen. Fíli. Fourteen. Not Fifteen. I am not of Fourteen. _Alsofor_ fuck’s _sakewhatsthewordforCompany_ _?_ _Realsickoftalkingaboutnumbershere_. _Butmypoint_. You do things? Fourteen do things? Is what that I saw. I do things? Is not that I saw. I need do things. All things. Or? Dain, King of Erebor. And I am not want that.”

He didn’t try to like her plan.

Not at all. Wasn’t even going to pretend. He wouldn’t have liked it when he thought the dragon was already dead. He wouldn’t have liked it if it had been her opening salvo back in Hobbiton. Now? Absolutely not. She was loyal enough to do what she’d just suggested. Fíli had long suspected her of having a death wish. They had joked about it at first when she faced off with Thorin. That joke had fallen apart when they had seen her in battle.

Kíli and Nori and Balin had discussed it at Beorn’s. Everyone in their wayward group had discussed it at one point or another in the last weeks. None of them knew how to sway her from the way she disregarded herself. But he would keep trying.

“What things? You killed Azog. Thorin is safe. You do not need to do everything.” She wouldn’t be fool enough to outright say she planned to fight a dragon.

She gave him a patronizing look. “Azog is…. _anummmm_ \-- no -- _dontknowagoodwordinwestron_ \-- _cockroach_ ? Azog? Is fasl. Is khark. Is not-spider. Is King for Not-Dead. Thorin and his sword for Azog’s arm with Azanulbizar. Raaaawwwr. Aaauuughhhh. And? Azog not dead. I knife Azog on leg. Aaaaauuugh. Azog? _Bestguess_ ? Not dead. _Sodontblowsmokeupmyass_ . _But… theoptimismiscuteon_ you.”

Fíli wanted to refute that argument. Wanted to assure her that Azog was even now a corpse. He wasn’t going to lie.

“Fine. But you do not need to do everything. All things. We will help.”

“No. I _thinkthat_ I _actuallydo_. _Thingsseemtoreverttocanonwithout_ me _runningaroundchanging_ it. _Mostlybyhittingthings_. _Whichiscool_. I _likethatpart_. _Butcomeon_. _Theyrodeinbarrels_. _Prettysure_ Bilbo _didnteventhinkofitbecausehewastryingtosex_ Thorin. _Theystillrodeinbarrels_. _After_ Rivendell _itwaspracticallycanon_ and _thatmakesnosense_. _Whatlittle_ I _dochangeisfortheworse_. No Fíli. I need do all things. You need to not dead. And help Kíli not to dead. Bilbo is helps Thorin.”

She was serious, delivering a speech or a lecture or a reprimand despite sounding like a rather slow dwarfling. Whatever she thought she was doing, it was undermined when she yawned.

“How are you not asleep, Frey?”

She heard the teasing lilt and glared, “You not sleep, too.”

“You weren’t there.”

Kíli would mock him if he ever heard that, but it was true. He was too used to falling asleep leaning against her. Which was how he knew that the little sleep she’d managed in the few hours they stopped yesterday had been riddled with visions and terror. Considering the battle fury she had fallen into, it was easily explained, but he wanted her to wake looking rested for once, not scraped hollow by foreknowledge.

She resisted his request that she get up and walk back, so Fíli bodily lifted her off the fence. He definitely needed to make sure she ate more. They dragged themselves back, both of them staggering under the exhaustion they had long ignored.

“Fíli? Why you are not angry I fight you? When Azog and orcs go, I fight you and Bofur. You are not angry?” She asked without preamble.

He shook his head, dismissing it. Why would they be angry at her for getting lost in the fight? She had saved his life. Battle rage was dangerous certainly, but she hadn’t harmed them, and come out of it easier than most dwarves did.

Now she was upset that he wasn’t mad at her.

She was inexplicable.

“No, Fíli. Talk why. I _wasinfullboreringlust_. I _wantedtokillyou_. I _wouldhaveif_ I _hadntgottentackled_. I was want you die. Why you are not angry?”

“I trust you. Battle rage is known among dwarves and among all warriors. You did not want to hurt us.”

She gaped, judgement plain in her slack jaw and furrowed brow. She could not have understood much of his answer, but was already upset, “Dwarf is idiot.”

“Mhmm.”

“Big Idiot.”

“Yes.”

She smacked him across the chest. “No laugh.”

He did the opposite.

She hit him harder.

He laughed louder.

“Stop. Stop that. You talk why.”

Frey scowled at him, not understanding.

She deserved an answer.

“I trust you. Khama… khama saznigthiya-ê. Ra khama samariliya.”

“Fíli. Not Khuzdul. Why?” She snapped.

She didn’t have any of the words he needed explain it. That made this harder. He really should try. That would be proper. He was a prince, and should at least attempt to be proper. But it would take ages of gesturing and explaining. Standing in front of him, she was impatient and bewildered, still spattered with blood from the battle.

And he did have some evidence she would not be wholly opposed to the idea.

So, instead of a protracted song and dance to explain his trust and confidence in her motivations, he kissed her.

Not so well as she had kissed him.

It was just a bend of his head and a soft press of lips.

She didn’t run away though. That was good.

And they weren’t subsequently attacked by orcs. Also good.

Emboldened, he raised a hand to her cheek while the other found her waist. He had never kissed someone without a beard before. That catastrophe in the woods didn’t count. It was almost scandalous. He’d been too surprised to react. Her fingers caught on his coat, and gripped as if it was the only thing keeping her upright. Using what experience he had, he nipped at her lip, and had to wonder just how much of that plant she had eaten.

Then she raised to her toes, stepped closer, and he no longer minded the slight taste of vegetable. Compared to the last it was timid, innocent. Their hands didn’t wander, just clung. In part because they were both filthy; her hair was too much a mess to really touch. More so because he was too busy drowning in the flood of awareness. The press of heat against his front in contrast to the chilled air. The quiet lap of water and distant murmur of voices. The way she had crushed her handful of plants between them.

This was much nicer than last time. Much less confusing. He was absolutely certain he had clarified his position on the kissing in the forest.

They stopped when her legs grew tired and her heels sank down to the planks of the path.

“That,” he faltered, hand pressed against her jaw, “That is why.”

“Oh. _Thatsgenerallythesortofthingthatgetsfolkskilledinmovies_. _Justaskyourbrother_. _Butgenerallythegirl_. _Unlessitsawarflick_. _Likehowtheresalwaysthatguythathasagirlbackhomand--_ _whyam_ I _talkingaboutthat_? _Ohmygod. Shutupself_.” Doe-eyed, she cut herself off and looked back up at him. “ _Rightummmm_. _Right_. Yes. We walk now? Fourteen and all sleep? Yes. Good. Yes.”

Frey stepped away, flustered and blushing, and freezing with her lips parted when she met his eye. He was almost proud of himself. No. Strike that. He was very proud of himself.

He’d slid his hand along her arm as she moved back, and teased a finger over the outside of her knuckles. “You see?”

She nodded mutely, up and down, up and down, while his self congratulation grew. Her frustrated petulance was absent. Then she tried to take action, take control. She tried to reclaim her normal temper. She nodded brusquely as she clenched her jaw and spun to walk back to the house.

Except she’d lost track of where she was.

Fíli saw it coming and clutched her hand, but couldn’t stop her fall into the lake.

The splash was quiet. The shriek was not.

To his dying day, he’d claim he followed her in by choice.

 

* * *

 

“My brother thinks I hadn’t noticed his plotting.”

“He was plotting somehwat?”

Ori tilted his head, not sure if the ale was at fault, or if Dwalin was simply incapable of seeing the obvious scheming look in Nori’s every move.  

“Yes. To walk away from the quest, I’m almost certain. I doubt he would try to get back to Ered Luin directly, we’re too far to the East now. Perhaps he’d consider heading to the iron hills, or south toward Rhun. One thing my brother has always been very good at it is surviving.”

They were lounging across chairs by the fireplace. Kíli and Tauriel had been sitting with them, but the pair had fallen asleep in their chairs. Ori suspected that Dwalin was only talking to him now because he could no longer grill the elf on her intentions. Maybe Ori was too trusting, but any elf that would rescue them, aid them, was worth forgiving.

Now they were the only two left. Dwalin had kicked Kíli in the boot, pointed him toward an empty room on the first floor, and pointedly shown the elf a room on the opposite side of the building. He had placed a bet solidly against the two of them. Ori had done the opposite. She seemed nice. Too tall, but nice.

“Ya think your brother was going to just run off?”

“He has before.”

Dwalin snorted, “Aye that’ll be true, but he’d not have left the two of you behind. Nori’s got a strange notion of loyalty, you have ta give him that.”

Denials died on his tongue as Ori had to admit that the morality may not have been sound, but no, Nori wouldn’t have left him behind.

It was a mercy he wasn’t drugged unconscious on the back of some miserable nag even now.

Damned overprotective brothers.

The rest of the ale. That was the answer to that.

He tapped his mug to Dwalin’s, emptied it, again, and marched back to the barrels in the kitchen.

Dwalin was confusing.

Ori wasn’t used to confusing. If something was confusing, he read another history, or studied the ancient epics. If that didn’t work, he would go to Balin, and hear a multi day lecture on the subject.

That was obviously out of the question in this case.

Balin would answer, no doubt about that, but, at what cost? Too high. That was the answer that came back to him. Much too high. Mug full again, he spun to tromp back to his chair, and smacked into Dwalin’s chest. Ale flew, Ori stumbled, and Dwalin caught him by the arm. Even most of the way through the barrel of ale, the warrior was still able to make Ori feel like a gawky dwarfling in comparison.

Awkward apologies followed. Ones that sounded more like a condemnation of Ori’s balance and his ability to hold his drink.

Really, Dwalin was entirely confusing. Wonderful, sure, but mostly just confusing.

There was something said about how Ori might need help getting to bed. Which was either very rude, or cause for a lot of blushing.

Fleeing seemed to be the thing to do. He ducked under Dwalin’s enormous arm, silently berating himself for his cowardice, and halted in the doorway.

In the main room, Fíli and Frey had returned. For some reason, they were soaking wet and shivering. Baffled, Ori watched them hiss angrily at each other through chattering teeth, strip out of everything they easily could while lobbing the articles at each other, burrowing into bedding that had been draped over the chairs, stealing said bedding from each other, and sitting so close to the fire they didn’t have to move to add more wood.

He was glad to see the binder hadn’t gotten lost; Nori would whine.

Ori gestured enthusiastically over his shoulder, grateful for iglishmêk. Be Silent and Get over Here were the most widely used signs. Everyone knew them. Dwalin was positively gleeful, anticipating gossip with ruddy cheeks.

Their interpersonal awkwardness would have to wait. They watched, hoping there was a bet to be paid out in the morning. At least Ori hoped there was. It didn’t matter if he lost with his bet of ‘post dragon’. This was the fastest purse he had ever seen. That was remarkable. Bifur had been confident earlier, but after this he would be intolerably smug. If anything happened.

After all, they were just sitting there, grumbling and whining at each other.

“Oh get on with it.” Dwalin said soft enough it went unheard by the pair. Since the dwarf was leaning around the door frame, head beside Ori’s trying to usurp the best view, Ori heard the comment. He wouldn’t have expected him to be so set on seeing this pair confirm anything. But here they were.

The pair didn’t obliquely do anything that Ori and Dwalin could report back and confirm. That was upsetting. They did, however, argue and bicker over who was at fault for their current state right up until Fíli shushed her, pulled her head onto his shoulder, and leaned into the nearby chair.

Ori had to push Dwalin back into the kitchen to stop him storming over to lecture the dwarf.

“It’s just not right, the pair of them acting like that and then not even-- Bifur’s gonna follow ‘em around the city after we tell him about this. Maybe we can just get em drunk. Lass has a fondness for it. Even if this mannish stuff is weaker’n cream.”

“No. No. Don’t you even think about it. If they don’t intend to say anything or make any announcements, then you know you have to leave them be. You don’t get to act like an oaf just because you’re broad enough to fight an oliphaunt. Behave yourself. No. Not a word. Behave.”

Nodding in punctuation, he emptied the last of the ale from his mug. The majority of it was down his tunic.

There was a back stair from the kitchen, he could get back to his room.

Everything tonight was just too much. He’d spotted his brother sneaking off with Bofur. Their missing companions had reappeared like a rainstorm underground, raising questions faster than they could be answered.  They had an elf vowing to aid them. Thorin had blushed earlier. It was all too much.

Dwalin had spent the night talking with him as soon as the vigil had turned to festivity.

Entirely too much.

He was going to bed. In a real bed. With a pillow and clean bedding. Well, clean enough, Ori wasn’t going to complain about a bit of must and damp fish smell

On the other hand, he was going to complain if the footsteps behind him were Dwalin following because surely all that would happen is that Dwalin would say something horrid and insulting, try to make it better, actually make it worse, and then vanish.  

It had been fun.

Not any longer.

Clarity. That would be fun.

He could take a page from Nori’s book, but, Dori had gone grey already, more might kill him. All the same, he stopped on the platform. With his arms outstretched he could have blocked the way. Nearly.

Dwalin stopped short, a step below, and still taller than the scribe.

“Yes?”

“I, uh… Never been one for words really. Balin was always the one for that. So this might come out a bit off. But after all this, assuming we aren’t sup for the dragon, and assuming that nothing worse than that shows up. If all that goes to right, and the lads and Thorin are all well, and Erebor’s in dwarvish hands again. Well. Maybe after that I could bring you somewhat. Not all at once, and not if you don’t want it. And I know after this all is said and done if we aren’t roasted, you’ll have plenty of gold. But a gift. Or two. Quills. After what’s happened I should do it proper. Maybe paper. Somewhat like that. Unless you’d rather I craft somewhat. But paper. Just to start. Don’t want to assume. But if it goes right. Gifts. For you. If you think that might be something you’d want.”

Thank Mahal Ori was well schooled.  

He managed to translate that into coherent thoughts.

“You wish to court me? Proper courtship? With gifts?”

“After the dragon. Aye.”

Dammit, the warrior was staring. The scramble of words and intentions and alcohol had been delivered with single minded courage. Unfounded confidence. Now that it was done, he was just watching Ori’s reaction.

Ori needed to react. With every moment that passed in silence, there was a bit more grimace than hope in Dwalin’s broad smile. There were wrinkles forming around his eyes. He needed to say something.

“No.”

Okay, maybe not the best thing to say.

“Oh, It’s all to--”

“No I meant--”

“Go on.”

Dwalin had his battle face up, and was doing a good job of hiding behind it. Ori wanted to wrap around him like a vine until that went away.

“Not after the dragon.”

“I see.”

“No! Not like that. Oh fasl ablagshalâk I’m doing worse than you do. No! Not like that. I meant. Oh, we’re just miserable at this. I meant to say yes, please, but no, don’t wait until after the dragon.”

There. That was clear enough. He hoped.

“So, you’d like to…”

“I’d like you to bring me a gift. Officially. Properly.”

Dwalin smiled, just a restrained thing beneath his beard, “That hammer you nicked from me doesn’t count?”

Ori braced himself to decree, “No. It doesn’t. And if you take too long to do it, I’ll bring you a gift, and we’ll scandalize Dori forever. Now then, uh. Goodnight Mister Dwalin.”

He didn’t flee. He nodded like he wasn’t trembling and flailing inside, then climbed the last of the stairs. It was only after the door swung shut that he buried his face in his hands and smiled until his cheeks ached.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so silly. So so silly. Why did I write this? I don't even know anymore. 
> 
> Meph, you're phenomenal as ever. Everyone else, go say thank you to the nice beta that keeps me from curling up in a corner and refusing to show anyone my inadequate writing. 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  ibsên bar’gairuith : little walking cave in  
> Khama : Because  
> khama saznigthiya-ê : Because you make me brave.  
> Ra khama samariliya : And Because you continue to show heart  
> fasl ablagshalâk : cock juice (Nori taught him this, just so you know)


	21. All Taken Care Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the relevant parties think to come up with plans regarding the dragon.

 

Sucking in a breath of air that did nothing to alleviate the tightness in her throat, and gasping it back out over a high croak, Frey awakened from yet another nightmare. Shivering, trying to force away the images in her mind, she made to sit up, but found herself caught. Panic rose higher until she identified who had captured her. Fíli grumbled, and tightened the arm he had snuck around her waist, frizzy from their impromptu swim.

He nuzzled his face closer to her neck and grumped at being disturbed. Beads bopped against her collarbone, and she regained control of herself watching him over her shoulder.

It was sweet. He probably only had half a dozen weapons on him since the rest had been shucked off with their dripping wet clothes, so it was about as innocent as Fíli could be. It was precious, however, his belief that she was his new teddy bear wasn’t working for her. Their need to bathe hadn’t been lessened by the accidental dunking.

Also, dreaming all damn night about conversations with the eye of Sauron had her a bit grim, despite the cuddly wake up. The number of times she had accepted offers from the floaty ball of evil was unnerving, and while Fíli did mutter consolatory things to her each time she had been startled awake, he had become an ever larger feature of her nightmares. He was the goad held up to both tempt and torment her. He was the one she got to watch die over and over. He was the primary pain in almost every dream.

It wasn’t like he’d been a footnote in them before.

Trying to get away from him by strength didn’t go well -- didn’t go at all actually -- but slowly, softly rubbing his hand until he relaxed got her free. His eyes flickered open, “You are good?”

“We are not in Mirkwood. I am good. Sleep Fí. Uh crap, I meant -- Fíli.”

Distrustful, he did his best to glare.

Frey smoothed down some of the frizz ball his hair had become. She knew he had slept less than any of them in Mirkwood, too determined to take responsibility for their fate. He was almost always there when she’d woken from nightmares. He had taken watch every night. He needed to get some rest. So, she was pleasantly surprised when he did, closing his eyes and falling away from the world.

The morning was only beginning to break, and Frey scrambled into the clothes she had stripped out of the night before. Lake water was a terrible perfume.

Kneeling on the ground in front of the embers of the last night’s fire, she scratched at the dirt embedded in the bra thing she was wearing. Hers hadn’t survived the fight with Azog. And that was a hell of a thought. She had fought Azog because she was, at her core, a moron. Yes, she could blame the charging on the ring, but, she had been trying to do so before she noticed Kíli wearing it. With a quick mental note to figure out why the hell he hadn’t been invisible, Frey dragged her tunic over her head.

Fíli snorted and snuffled into a comfier position.

There was work to be done. She couldn’t get distracted, not if she wanted to pull off a hat trick. Reverse hat trick. Maybe she could call it a double hat trick. Or a hat trick with a shut out? Three dead enemies. Three live Durins. The goal didn’t change just because one of them had kissed her.

And there went her mind again, wandering back to that moment, and the utter haze of babbling nonsense it had induced. Fandom had it right. Excellent choice. Still a bit impossible to think it had happened at all, but, she wasn’t arguing with it.

She could have that. Properly, actually, really have that. She could be the envy of every fan. She could complete the set, none of the Durin’s would end up with dwarves. And one day, that would make her queen of the dwarves, and she could have enough power to do whatever she pleased. She could decide the course of the world when Sauron inevitably started up on his Industrialization for Everyone story arc.

Allegiances could be forged, deals made.

Lives saved.

Lives taken.

No. No no no.

Frey shook herself.

Unlike every damn heroine she had ever read a book about, she had no intention of having her dramatic finale be a damn wedding dress. Or, on further consideration, of dying in some gory and horrid way just to reinforce the suffering of the moment for people that cared about her, to propel them to their grand finale.

If Fíli did care about her. That was still a bit hazy. She shouldn’t get ahead of herself.

He didn’t  _ dislike _ her, that was certain.

Worse, he trusted her. She’d have happily killed him and the twat thought she was the bee’s knees. Thorin would have stabbed her. Old Thorin. Newlytrusting, trying to hug her like she was Bilbo on the Carrock Thorin? Who knew.

Fabulous.

Durins really weren’t the brightest creatures to ever grace the earth.

Fíli being gorgeous and nice and concerned about her and destroying her ability to think with the kissing and the cuddling could not be the reason that all this bullshit fell to pieces. She wouldn't allow it. They were alive now, and they were going to stay that way.

That meant that once again, it was go time. The idiot causing her such consternation was fully asleep now, but it didn’t relieve his tension. Too bad middle earth didn’t have saunas and swedish massage therapists.

He had seemed cozier before she got up.

No, not an option. Curling back up with the hottest of the hot dwarves was off the table. Floor. Whatever. They had a mountain to storm and dragon to slay. That meant there were plans to be made. Frey huffed.

She stood up, stretched the arm still bruised from where Azog had clipped her, and winced. Not due to pain.

First things first, bath time.

 

* * *

 

It was shaping up to be a very strange day for Bilbo Baggins. He liked to think that he was a bit harder to ruffle since running out his door in the spring. Today wasn’t on the same scale as the days when their lives had been endangered, but it was just a bit too much of a range in too short a time for his taste.

Sore in the best way, sated, secure and content, Bilbo had woken beside Thorin, and opted not to waste the fact that they had a bed at their disposal. At which point he had been even more sore, and quite a bit sticky. Unlike the gorgeous dwarf that had dropped back to sleep after, Bilbo had been up and ready to take a bath and bake some scones.

Not that he could make scones in this place. They hadn’t any butter. Or lemon. All the same, the instinct had brought him down the stairs and into the main chamber, where he had found Fíli and Freya asleep by the fireplace.

The pair of them were fortunate that the dwarves seemed to be making up for lost sleep after the anxious last days. If they had come barrelling down the stairs, loud and pestering and very much themselves, and found the pair cuddled into each other with clothing scattered about them, it would have been a a mess.

Bilbo on the other hand, had tucked the blanket a bit closer around them, revived the fire, and taken a post in the kitchen. He still wasn’t certain what the protocol for dwarves and courtship as opposed to canoodling was, nor did he know what the two of them were up to, but he knew that the sight would have caused a ruckus. He didn’t want that.

At this point his morning had still been a delight, and he’d had no reason to think that the rest of the day wouldn’t proceed just the same.

Then Freya had appeared, still damp, from the bathing room and cornered him.

That was really the start of it all going wrong.

Apparently her family had never taught her to leave heavy subjects for after elevenses. Terrible manners. Deferrals would work on the dwarves, or on his relatives back home, but he doubted he’d be able to talk her out of discussing battle plans on a half filled tum.

Beside than the revelation that the dragon was in fact still breathing, she had said little about the subject. Honestly, Bilbo had found that oddly encouraging. Considering how fixated she seemed to be about keeping them alive, her relative disinterest in what he would have thought to be the largest challenge ahead of them was a good sign. Perhaps the dragon was alive, but sickly. Perhaps she knew how to kill it.

Thorin had sworn he had some plans that had been established while in Ered Luin, but the best of them involved a very large rock. There was even one that involved a great quantity of molten gold. Bilbo thought -- hoped -- that the idea had been Thorin’s attempt at levity when Bilbo was looking especially despondent on the ground outside his cell.

Frey had babbled at him for a time, lapsing into gaping, staring, silences that she broke with curses and self-reprimands. He had not caught her meaning though. Not even when she tried to draw things on the table.

That had resulted in her stomping up the stairs. One at a time, she had reappeared, dragging people behind her. Kíli and Tauriel had been amused. Thorin looked like nothing more than a cat asked to move out of a sunbeam. Freya had then herded them out of the house, snapping at the company not to follow when they shouted questions.  

She hauled them into the streets with an impatience too similar to Mrs Bracegirdle and a passel of fauntlings for Bilbo not to be insulted. She dragged them off, stopping to point to a few things, attempting to sort out the words. Then she began harassing random locals as she looked for ‘Bard, man of boats’.

The epithet did little to narrow the field in a town whose primary means of travel was water-based.

When she had changed to asking after Bard, man of barrels, they had finally gotten somewhere. Well, after they visited the cooper whose name was Bard.

Nice man. Confused, but nice. He set them in the right direction.

When they found the place, she shouted and ran up the stairs, recognizing it as her quarry.

Thorin was grumpy.

Kíli and Tauriel were intrigued.

Bilbo was befuddled.

And Frey was pounding on a door as they all watched. Bilbo startled when the door swung open. Then came the guilt. He shared a momentary wince with Thorin who had clearly had a similar thought; they hadn’t realized that she meant the same Bard who had brought them to town. Now all that yelling about barrels made more sense.

“Master dwarf, master hobbit, I see you continue to keep interesting company.” Bard commented dryly with a glance to Tauriel and Freya. “What brings you back to bother me and mine? More barrels?”

“We and you need words, Bard.”

The Bargeman gave her a look of paternal concern that quickly turned to condemnation for them indulging one who he clearly thought was a few fish shy of a stew. His mouth opened, the dark expression on his brow deepened, and before he could speak, she huffed and pushed past him.

“My apologies master boatman, she is not always as tactful as we might hope her to be, but as she insisted we come find you, it is likely you will want to hear what she has to say.”

“How do you mean?”

“She knows what’s going to happen.” Kíli interjected, grinning.

They all heard a crash, then, a moment later, a young voice calling, “Da?”

“Is good Sigrid. _Stopworrying_.”

They followed of course, Bard’s concern meaning he was no longer blocking the door. She was digging through various shelves and boxes, seeking something.

“Da? What’s going on?” Bard’s daughter asked, hair pulled back in buns and a dirty apron showing signs of breakfast.

“Some... friends have come to visit. We’re going to have a talk.” Bilbo could see the same slant in her eyebrows. Disbelief with the answer, but not enough pathos to bother to comment. Judgement and a bit of disappointment in the twist in her mouth. She was certainly his daughter. “Keep your brother and sister out from under foot, Sigrid.”

She went, but Bilbo could already see her plotting to get an explanation later.

“ _Sayhito_ Tilda and Bain.” Frey waved, then went back to investigating every bundle of anything in the home. Tauriel was new enough to Frey’s idiosyncrasies to still be surprised and curious. The rest had already shrugged and accepted that the other children’s names were almost certainly correct.

Bard however, had flipped from mild concern for the crazy person to protective father. “Why are you here? And who is she?”

Thorin lifted his chin, attempting to majestic his way out of answering. Kíli mimicked it. So it was left to Bilbo to try to answer. “That is Freya. You aren’t wrong, she’s quite mad, but as Kíli said, she can see things. She found us a few months ago, and has since been overwhelmingly right in her declarations. If she thinks that we need to be here it is likely true.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to ask her. Freya? Why are we here?”

From her perch on a chair where she was poking at the things on top of a shelf that seemed to consist of fishing gear, she turned to look at them all. “Girion.” she scoffed with a look that shouted it was obvious to her.

“The last lord of Dale?” Thorin asked. She nodded. “Girion is dead.”

“ _Wellnoshithesdead_. _Itsbeenahundredandhowevermanyyears_.”

Bilbo regretted not bringing Fíli with them. Or Balin. Or Bofur. Any of them that had spent an extra month around her. They had seemed to have a better understanding of her language than the present group did. She had been insistent though. Silly of him, he knew better than to think they could understand her.

“What do you know of Girion?” The man grumbled.

Frey dropped her head back and groaned. “ _Finejustmakemetellthestory_.” she held up her hand and began a performance, “Girion is King of Dale. Smaug was go for Erebor and Dale? Girion with arrows. Girion climb up. Big arrows. Big Dwarf Arrows. _Letshopethistranslatesdirectly_. Night Arrows. Yes? Night arrows and big bow of four _thingamajiggies_. Girion? Yarrrr! Smaug? Rawwwwrrrrrr. Girion is arrow at Smaug. Is hurt Smaug. Is not dead Smaug.”

She held up a hand and indicated a circle between her fingers before pointing to the left of her chest. “Bard with night arrow? Smaug for Esgaroth? Rawwrrrrrr. Bard is No! _Fshoooo_. Smaug go Rawwwararuuuggghhh. And dead Smaug.”

Silence stretched after she finished flapping about. While she waited, looking at them like it made anything clearer, Bilbo spared a glance to the man in question who had just been declared a dragonslayer-to-be. Unenthusiastic was as far as he could stretch his description. Infuriated was the better word.

Oddly, it was Kíli that broke it, tossing his arms in the air.

“Oh thank mahal, I don’t have to do it. Or-- uh -- not that I couldn’t, but it was -- or -- I could still kill the dragon if need be, but she has rarely been wrong and I am just glad that --”

“Why did you think you must kill him?” Thorin said, saving the younger dwarf from the rambling he had fallen into.  

“At Beorn’s, she said something about needing an archer.”

“You mean to wake the dragon?” Bard shouted, breaking his stunned incoherence. “You have no right to attempt to take that cursed place! This is why you are here? To bring ruin down upon us?”

“I have every right to enter the mountain of my fathers.”

“You’ll do naught but kill us all.”

“That mountain is ours by right.”

“You’re that dwarf? A son of Thror the mad king? You’re the heir to that accursed place? You’ll gain nothing from it but sorrow, and bring our end upon us in the same stroke.”

“Who are you to question our actions when you have done nothing against the creature that will one day destroy this region?”

“Thorin! Bard! _Shutit_! Shhh. No. Shh. Shhhshhhsshhhh _Shutyourpieholesyoutwats_. Bard? Smaug now is in Erebor. We go for Erebor. Many arrows. Kíli go for dead Smaug.” She paused, thinking, “Or Tauriel. _Shesawildcarddontwhatthatlldo_. _Butshesprettyawesome_. _Notthepoint_. That not go? Yes, Smaug is go for here. You? You and arrows climb up for big dwarf arrow bow, and dead Smaug.”    

“You cannot know the beast will fall.” She rolled her eyes at the man, throwing her head back and groaning, then shouted in triumph. Without warning or explanation she clamored onto a chair, then onto the table to reach a clutch of poles and posts nested together in a set of hooks on a ceiling beam. Out of it she extracted the largest arrow that Bilbo had ever seen. Nearly as tall as he himself, it had a twisted hollow tip, and was wrought in steel, point to tail.

“Night arrow.” She beamed at them, leaning on it like a staff, “Smaug go for Esgaroth? Smaug is dead. Bard, you are make Smaug dead. Why? Sigrid. Tilda. Bain.” Frey extended the shaft to him, and her smile widened when he accepted it. “I see that. I. See. That. You and arrow and Smaug is dead. I talk that now. You know now. Not agh! Oh noooo! Smaug! And you run. No. You know now. _Youcandoitbutmaybedontgetarrestedthistimedude_.”

“You would place the fate of this region on my shoulders alone?”

She wasn’t going to understand that. Too complicated. In fact, Bilbo had been impressed with the clarity she had managed so far. Compared to that day in the trolls’ hoard it had been practically poetic.

“She isn’t, and nor are we,” Thorin drew himself up, straight and imposing: kingly, “We do intend to go to Erebor. It is our right, and mine more than any. I am not my grandfather, you have my word of that. We will not go unprepared. We will not allow the dragon to fall upon this town while we are still drawing breath.”

Bard was fuming, but beyond lending the same speech in his own voice, Bilbo had nothing to add. He had long been convinced of the importance of the quest. He supposed he could break into song, but as Bard was not harboring a desperate, instant, attraction to the dwarf king, it was unlikely to have a similar effect. Kíli would try to make a grand speech, but it would not be any more meaningful from him.

If Bard did not wish them to travel to the mountain, there was nothing he could do to stop them. Thorin would have words with the Master, ply him with coin and promises, and Bard would likely find himself in a cell, or accidentally pushed into the lake while wearing heavy boots. That would likely upset Freya, who considered him consequential.

“Sir,” Tauriel’s voice, accented with traces of elvish, and soothing, caught all of their attention. “Master Bard, you fear the dragon falling upon this town and the ruin that would bring. You have lived with that fear your whole life. There is not a child in this town who does not know that the dragon is always there, and who does not know that he will one day come for you. No one who does not know that despair and devastation lurk in every shadow of this region. My king knows this too. But where he will not heed the rising danger, where he will not face down the darkness, he will surely one day be lost to it. You are faced with a chance to stop that dark fate from claiming your town.

“You are warned of what is to come, and that is a tremendous gift. Where this child receives her wisdom I do not know, but she comes with glad tidings. I travel with the dwarven company to the mountain, and you have my word as well as theirs that we will do all we can to destroy the dragon before it can leave that place.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“May I ask how you came to have that arrow? It is a remnant of the stores in Dale is it not?”

“It is.”

“How did it come to you?”

“From my father and his before him.”

“You are descended from Lord Girion.” Tauriel did not ask, simply spoke with the certainty of someone who had likely seen the man in question, “Your father handed to you that responsibility and you have kept it close throughout your life. Tell me, if the dragon awoke today, rose up in furious wrath and came down upon this place to rain fire on your lives, would you not have taken up that arrow and rushed to try to slay the beast?”

Bard’s anger was dissipating, hardening into resolve. Bilbo watched as the Durins grew proud, and felt an echo of that in his chest.

“You would have gone to try, because to do anything less would have been a disgrace to your heritage. That you know of it now does not change what you must -- what you will do. These dwarves have come to retake what should never have been allowed to fall. They have come to take the home that they lost. When they succeed the whole of the East will begin to heal. The shadows will fade Your children will grow, and by the time they raise their own, the air will not be stale with the threat of destruction. They will not shrink from the darkness, afeared of what may lurk there. They will not shy away hope.

“We will travel to Erebor, no matter what answer you give, but sir, if we fail, you must do what no one else has dared to try. You know you will succeed, so take heart, and stand resolved, knowing that evil will not be allowed to pass you to once more wreak havoc on the world.”

They all sat in awe of the elf, who seemed to be unaware of the impact of her words. She kept watching Bard, beneficent and supportive. Bilbo could see the way Kíli’s head lolled a bit to the side as he grinned like an idiot.

“ _Dontknowwhatyousaid_. _Butyourboyfriendisentierlymadeofhearteyesnow_. _Soooooo_.  _Welldone_.”

Bard, cowed and encouraged all at once, inclined his head. Tauriel returned it.

His ridiculous dwarf was admiring the elf, and Bilbo would have to tease him for that. Not that Bilbo wasn’t similarly inspired, but for Thorin Oakenshield to have so handily been swayed by a speech was bubbling laughter in the hobbit’s chest. It would have spilled out if Bilbo had not made another connection. The expression was the same as the one he’d gained while Bilbo defended the company to the Master of the town.

It was the expression of one who had not found support from anyone save their own kin in so long, that it seemed unreal. It was the shock of turning to find the footsteps in the dark were there to defend you not attack you. It was the joy of realizing that someone who had no obligation to, was still standing at your side. It was a confusion that anyone found him to have value or merit.

Bilbo wanted to curl up with him and list every remarkable thing about him until that shock faded and would never come back. He added that to the list of things to do before they went to fight a dragon. Just in case.

Speaking of which.

“And what is your plan within the mountain? It is sealed shut by the worm within it.”

“There is another way. We will enter on Durin’s Day.”

“And when is that?”

“Soon.”

“And once you are inside?”

Thorin hesitated, and Bilbo jumped into the moment, “Well, I am in fact contracted to steal the arkenstone from the dragon, so I suppose that would be the first thing.”

“I thought you meant to slay it.”

“We do.”

“Ah. I did not know dwarves found Burglary fatal.”

“It isn’t.”

“I think it might be.” he replied, looking significantly at Bilbo. Thorin, demonstrating that he could still be a numpty, took that as a threat and half snarled in the majestic way he favored.

Maybe a fight would have broken out, but Kíli shouted happily. “We’re archers! That’s why she didn’t bring Fí! The four of us are archers, and Bilbo is a burglar. We have to sort out a plan. So what do we need to do Frey?”

Everyone looked back to her, and she flicked her head from one to the next, trying to understand what was happening. She had clearly lost the thread of the conversation long ago. “ _Whatabout_ Fíli?”

“What must we do?” Bilbo repeated for her.

“Oh! No. No. I not see that. I do not see small things for that. Arrows. I see arrows. You five? You talk. _ShithowdoIuhhhhhh_ … You five are make word thing? _Crapno_. _Ummmmm_. _Sorrythatsasfarasmyvocabgoes_. Make word thing, talk thing for fight with Smaug.”

“A plan?” Kíli asked. She shrugged, bewildered. Perhaps Fíli or Balin could sort that out later. “Oh! Uncle, are there more arrows in the mountain?”

Thorin began to answer, then closed his eyes for a breath, “Yes,” he answered finally, “The dragon would not have been able to travel through the passage to the armory. Unless he collapsed that part of the mountain, there should be a stock of black arrows there.”

“ _Waitjustafuckingsecond_. Black? Not Night Arrow?” Frey asked, then cursed when it was confirmed, “ _Forfuckssake_ Fíli _whatthefuckhavyouhadmesaying_?”

“Her language skills are particularly helpful in this.” Bard observed.

Bilbo tightened his lips. “Yes.”

“But Bilbo, you’re our burglar, just go steal arrows instead! We can find bows here, or maybe forge something since that’s a bit bigger than a normal bow could manage. Maybe a two person bow? But Bilbo, you could bring them to us, and we could be hiding and then when Smaug comes we could attack.”

“ _Whatsgoingonnow_?”

“Oh yes, I’ll just take six trips shall I? Not that I even know where I’m going in a mountain that I’ve never been to before.”

“They’re also as tall as you are.” Bard added helpfully.

“We’ll send someone with you that knows where to go.”

“If you recall, the whole point of my coming along rather than you sending Nori in was to do with the fact that you all smell like dwarves.”

“Freya can go with you then, and Uncle can draw you a map.”

“She will not.” Thorin snapped.

“ _Immawhatnow_? _Youpeopletalkwaytoofuckingfast_. _Canweslowdown_? _Maybeaddsomecharades_?”

“Oh yes, this is grand, assuming the dragon doesn’t wake up and decide he’d like a nice snack of roast hobbit before he goes off to find the rest of you?” Thorin’s hand found his leg, and gripped at the fabric of his trousers, “What precisely do you think to do after I’ve brought you all the arrows you might need? Ask Smaug to kindly come over for tea? Maybe sit for a portrait painting session so you can have a clear shot Kíli?”

“You would need to lead him to the rest,” Bard said, “If the others were waiting in a single place, and Smaug was brought to them, he might raise high enough for them to see the hollow of his breast, and take their chance.”

Thorin’s grip was painful by this point. Bard gave Tauriel and Kíli precise descriptions of where the gap in his scales could be found, and Bilbo took advantage of their distraction to turn to his dwarf. The same panicked rage that had set them to yelling hateful things at each other in the mountains was laying in a mask over his face. Now knowing the king better than he had, he could also see the way fear was lurking just beneath it.

Bilbo caught his wrist and squeezed through the vambrace, trying to find the words that would help the situation. As he had been hired as a burglar, and as that had preceded Thorin thinking he had any value, this was, without question, his agreed job. The contract was valid. Stealing from a dragon. Not a problem. Technically his contract stated that he was set to steal the Arkenstone, but right beneath his name was that word: Burglar. So all of it really ought to be rolled into one big pile for Bilbo to manage.

There was no getting around that point.

How was he meant to help the panic in his dwarf’s eyes when he was quite certain he looked similar?

“After.” Was all that Thorin said, slipping back into the safety of kingship to discuss with the others. A plan came together.

Compared to the one with the gold, it was ingenious. Compared to any rational thought, it was rubbish. Bilbo wasn’t a particular fan of the part where the fastest of the dwarves would lead a dragon across a mountain city they knew only from the map that Thorin was currently sketching. Oh, Balin would also make notes when they got back. That would make it far safer.  

Bilbo grumbled while they established the best room to use as their final stand, and Tauriel explained several forms of bow that could be operated by pairs. They considered trying to take the town’s windlance with them. Bard rejected that.

They discussed using the town’s forges. Thorin rejected that.

They discussed implementing the really big rock plan as a distraction. They all rejected that.

By the time they had settled into something they could agree upon, the day had faded, and Bilbo’s stomach was making vocal protest to hours of conference without snacks.

Through it all, Frey watched them, baffled, and understanding barely any of it. At the end she stopped them all with outstretched hands, asking, “Yeeeessss? We are good? We are know what we do, yes? _NotthatIdo_. _Butthatllbe_ Fíli’s _jobtotranslateIthink_. _AslongastheplanisbetterthanthelastoneImcoolwithit_. _Noliquidgold_? No water hair?”

Entirely earnest, she failed to understand why none of them answered what she must have thought was a coherent sentence.

“It must be a relief to have such clarity to guide you in this.” Bard deadpanned.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo’s day did not improve when they returned and explained the plan to the rest of the company. Certain members took it with less grace than others. Bombur and Nori were pleased. Bofur, less so. They were very fast: natural sprinters, the both of them. Bofur was kin.

With it stated simply, and with the inexplicably comprehended translations of Fíli, Frey finally caught on to what she had heard earlier. That was when she stood up and dragged Thorin outside by the fur of his coat.

He came back a half hour later, shaken. She followed him, solemn and resolved. They shared a single nod, then returned to their seats in bad tempers.

It was not alleviated by the pleasant meal, nor by the messenger from the Master informing them that the feast would be the next night, and that they were graciously invited to attend. It was not that Bilbo thought Thorin would be pleased by forced interaction with whatever lackeys the obsequious ruler would gather, but that it meant they could depart thereafter without risking offense. Thorin’s capacity for tact was proportionately related to how much the person in question would be necessary to Erebor’s survival.

Not Thranduil.

Thranduil was a special case.

Also, he started it. What with the imprisonment.

Not that Bilbo was taking sides.

As the others drifted off to bathe, or rest, or, in the case of the heated looks being passed between Bofur and Nori, beat each other -- with or without allusion, Bilbo wasn’t certain which it would be -- Thorin remained unsettled. Finally Ori and Fíli abandoned trying to teach new vocabulary to Freya, who was hiding under a blanket, and Bilbo and Thorin were left alone.

For a few seconds that felt like a few hours, Bilbo waited for Thorin to explain. That was as far as his patience extended, and he asked, “Why are you acting like a groundhog has gotten into your garden all of a sudden? I know why you looked like this while we were at the bargeman’s home, but now I am at a loss. What did she tell you that has you looking at me like that?”

“She reminded me of something she told me in the forest.”

“Well I’ll need you to be more specific than that.”

“Something about Erebor.”

“Really, Thorin?” The dwarf really needed to find some details if he wanted Bilbo to understand. All the girl had talked about since they first met her was Erebor. There were occasional mentions of vengeful orcs, sure, but Erebor was her fall back topic.

“Did Balin tell you of Thror?”

That was Thorin’s grandfather, the king that had lead the doomed attack on Moria. Balin had mentioned something about the tragedy of it, and Thorin had mentioned that he was nothing like his grandfather the few times he had heard the name mentioned. As far as Bilbo could recall, that was it.

“Only about the battle. And Bard mentioned him this afternoon.”

“Yes, it would seem that the arrow is not the only thing his line has preserved.” Eyes shut, Thorin drew a deep breath, bracing himself for whatever he next had to say. Bilbo took advantage of the chance and leaned closer. He kissed him softly, tenderness working at the knot of pain his dwarf was restraining. There was a familiarity to it now that was more precious to him than the way his head had buzzed after every touch in Rivendell.

That was exhilaration and excitement. That was the thrill of the new and surprising. Then, each brush of his lips, each new boundary they crossed had been a new world, and just like the adventure he was now living, they sent a jolt to his core with each discovery.

Now, as he felt the rigidity in Thorin’s jaw begin to melt, there was no question that this was the superior experience. Thorin Oakenshield, King and leader and hero to his people, kissed him in reply and urged him up into his lap. Bilbo was happy to oblige. He slipped a finger beneath the collar of Thorin’s shirt, and tugged him into sitting upright. His other hand settled over Thorin’s chest, finding the resilient thudding of the heart that seemed to travel through his arm to his own; as if his heart would change to match it and they could live in harmony.

Not that he wanted perfect harmony.

He pulled back, set their foreheads together and bumped their noses.

When Thorin exhaled again, the tension had faded.

“What’s this about your grandfather, and why does it have you overwrought?”

“He lost himself.” Bilbo frowned, but did not interrupt. “When I was a child, he was already beginning to show signs. The hoard that brought Smaug to Erebor was his, and his alone. He lost all sense of compassion and generosity. He slighted enemies and allies, and threatened any that tried to speak to him of what was happening.”

“What was happening?”

“There is a madness in the line of Durin, Bilbo. In me, through my heritage.” His voice was stiff, but his eyes were wide, “My father was lost to it after the battle of Azanulbizar took Frerin. My grandfather was lost to greed and goldsickness before we fled Erebor, and lost to death in that same battle, no longer the great mind he had been. I and all of our people could not save them.”

“You are not them, Thorin. I’ve never seen you even touch a bit of gold beyond a coin or two.”

“Of course not, we hardly have any. Erebor is… it is different Bilbo. Once there, the madness that drove him to cruelty will find hold within me, and in that state, I do not know if you will be safe.”

Bilbo eyed him a moment longer, and saw the puzzle come together.

“This is what she told you, reminded you. What does she think will happen?”

“As you told the boatman, she is rarely proven wrong.”

That wasn’t the point.

For all that Thorin’s hands were softly resting at his hips, the dwarf felt as if he was tremoring. Bilbo kissed him again, briefly. “There is nothing you can say that will scare me off Thorin, and clearly this is about me. I can’t imagine you’d be this upset if she told you that after taking the mountain you were going to punch Thranduil in the knee.”

“Yes, it is about you.”

The hobbit humphed, and crossed his arms, quite finished with dancing about the subject. “Then go ahead and tell me what it is, and you can be sure if I disapprove of it that I won’t allow it to happen.” Thorin blinked rapidly, and Bilbo startled at the tears building in his eyes. “Oh love. No. What is it?”

His worry only unravelled Thorin further. “You say that-- I cannot bear to think that you would lie. Is that true?”

“What are you talking about Thorin? You know full well that I love you far more than any hobbit should ever love a broody dwarven king. It’s likely to cause all sorts of trouble if we manage to live through this, and that part sounds unpleasant. I’ve no idea how we’re to proceed in the aftermath, but come now, you know that--” Bilbo looked at Thorin, and realized his mistake. “You didn’t know?”

The awed shake of his head was all the answer he could manage.

“Did you think that all this was just some silly dalliance? Did you think I chased you through the Misty Mountains and saved your nephew for no reason?”

“By that logic it would be a testament of love for him not me.”

“Thorin I swear to Eru, if it had been you that fell instead of Kíli, the others could have stayed in the tree, I wouldn't have needed their help.”

A declaration of slightly hyperbolic fact shouldn’t have induced such a reaction, but as it was Thorin -- compassion starved, romantic, poetic, hopeless Thorin -- they found themselves embracing with a more impassioned ardor than what had brought Bilbo in his lap. At some point Thorin must have decided that they needed privacy, because Bilbo vaguely noted he was being carried. Head spinning with the emotion of it, Bilbo couldn’t do much but allow Thorin to embark on what could only be called worship.

He wasn’t objecting.

In fact, he wasn’t doing much but whimpering and trying to keep track of whether he still was in possession of all of his limbs. He was relatively certain he was.

It had been a very strange day for Bilbo Baggins.

They sprawled over the bed after, and as Thorin kissed paths over the paunch of his hobbit’s stomach, Bilbo gathered enough of his wits to notice that this seemed to be a habit of Thorin’s.

“You can’t just strip me down and put your mouth to marvelous use just because you don’t want to discuss something.”

“I would never.” The playful smirk was unrepentant.

“Oh I see. Unpleasant conversational topic? Distract your hobbit with sex. Did you gather advice? Is there a book in Ered Luin on dodging certain subjects with your hobbit lover? It’s rather pleasant, and you know I’m not going to let you get away from answering, so I think your technique is excellent. I get the best of both.”

“Perhaps I need more practice?”

“Oh no, no no no, Thorin, I’m not so young as I once was, you know. Come, what did she tell you? Specifics. Or as clear as she ever is. Tell me. I’ll not let you sleep until you do, so surrender now.”

Thorin looked up, scruffy beard scraping over Bilbo’s stomach, and visibly forced himself to speak. “She saw me kill you. In Erebor, I will fall to madness and I will kill you. I will fall to goldsickness. Dragonsickness. The evil of that creature has saturated that gold and made it more potent. Gandalf raised concerns as well. Perhaps I could have withstood the gold, but both will be too much. She says I will kill you. Something about the Arkenstone, and that we are unable to find it, and that you will take the blame for its absence.”

Bilbo considered it a moment, and shook his head, certain, “You wouldn’t.”

“Do not go into Erebor. Stay here where it is safe. Freya will cross the mountain for the arrows we need. We have already discussed it. When it is settled you can join us.”

Several novels worth of objections all tried to leave his mouth at once as he sat up on his elbows. The sound he made was less than eloquent, so he reiterated, “No.”

“Bilbo.”

“By the sound of it, you’re the one who would need to stay out of Erebor, not me.”

“I cannot let you endanger yourself! I cannot risk you! You are not a dwarf, I cannot ask you to risk yourself against a dragon for a home not even your own.”

“He will not see me. I am remarkably light on my feet as Gandalf told you.” Bravado let him smirk a taunt, “I kept out of sight of the elves for a month, I can hide from a dragon for a few hours. When I’m done bringing the arrows, I will pop over and find your stone for you. There. Easily solved. If you have it, you cannot possibly blame me for its absence, and you’ll not have to worry you’ll cause me any harm.”

“No. Bilbo. The sickness of my line is not so simple as that. Distrust and focused anger are hallmarks. Cruelty and violence follow. The natural desires of a dwarf are amplified into  dangerous possessiveness. It will be dangerous for you Bilbo. With the compounding factor of the dragon, I do not know what I will do.”

“If distrust and focused anger are symptoms then you’ve been mad the entire time I’ve known you, and I love you still.” The phrase had the desired effect; Thorin hid his face again. “I signed that contract, and I didn’t walk away from it the last time you told me to either. Out of all of us, I’ve the best chance of succeeding in this, and you made the terrible mistake of convincing me how important this is. You’ll not talk me out of it now.”

The expression on the dwarf’s face was caught between adoration and frustration, and for a moment, he could have been back in Rivendell. Except it was colder. And he was no longer conflicted.

Somewhere along the way, without him noticing, he had ended the battle inside himself between his mother’s people and his father’s. He hadn't thought recently about what the Tooks would cheer on, what the Bagginses would condemn, not as anything but old habit. Maybe not since he had run toward the sound of wargs. He was just Bilbo now. He was himself.

And he would be damned if he let the confusticated, confounded, wonderful dwarf that he loved stop him from doing what needed to be done.

All that must have played out of his face. Thorin’s expression had shifted to reluctant resignation. “I cannot persuade you.”

“Not unless you tie me up in a sack. Even then it won’t work, I got us out of that business with the trolls, I can manage whoever you’d leave to guard me.” Bilbo wasn’t fool enough to be unafraid of out-sneaking a dragon, but he did have his ring, which he always felt more confident wearing. Besides, he had no intention of being anywhere near the beast. First the arrows, and then he would pop into the treasury to find the stone. He would be fine.

Well. He would survive.

As for after? Frey had been wrong before this. She had thought Thorin would need aid on the Carrock. She had been shocked by the spiders.

Sometimes she was wrong, and Bilbo would not accept that she was otherwise in this. Thorin would not hurt him. Unspoken yet, the love was obviously returned. The dwarf likely wanted to prepare a speech for his declaration. Maybe he felt he needed to craft something.

Silly creature.

“Freya is coming with you, to keep you safe.”

He scoffed, “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Then I will come with you.”

“Absolutely not. Smaug will smell you.”

“Then she will.”

“Fine. Was that your idea or hers?” Thorin looked away, “You  _ asked _ her to go with me? Did you ask her to keep me safe for you?” Bilbo was teasing, but the reaction was severe. His eyes went dark with a secret Bilbo couldn’t identify. His mouth tightened: more than enough answer that Bilbo was entirely right. “Ridiculous dwarf. You trust her that much?”

“She kept my nephews alive. But that isn’t why.”

“Oh?”

“I’m simply of the belief that you can outrun her.”

Bilbo paused, found the implication and gaped. When Thorin’s expression broke and he began to laugh, it was infectious. They fell asleep together, lighter in spirit, despite what hovered above them, waiting to destroy their happiness. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Khuzdul this time. As sometimes happens.
> 
> However, happy Unexpected Anniversary! I figured since I first posted this monstrosity of a fic a year ago today, it was fitting that I post this chapter. In defense of the year it has taken to write this much, the whole fic was meant to be 150k, and clearly, thats not happening.  
> But this is such a surreal and amazing thing to me. The kudos and the comments and the bookmarks and good lord, the hits. Whenever the thought of writing more is too exhausting, I look at them, and I feel so much better. Thank you to all of you that have been along on this adventure with me, and as we head into part three of this, I hope you remain just as enthusiastic in your support. <3
> 
> Ps. I'll give you a present if you can guess why Frey said 'water hair'.


	22. Optimism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is their last day in Laketown.

Children of men were less easily intimidated in the East. In Ered Luin, in the towns and villages of men that were near their home, children had often looked at Bifur, or, more specifically, at the axe in his face, and run away. This was despite all of them seeing, and fighting, orcs before they saw their progeny.  In Laketown, it seemed to only be an oddity. Bifur had to suppose that living under the constant knowledge that a dragon might wake up feeling snacky any day, or that ravaging orcs might invade, or that the cursed forest next to them might expel some fell army, or, that elves might visit, the children were more resilient.

Bifur liked them.

One little boy had insisted on tying a ribbon around it in a bow. The tails dangled in front of his eyes, but he smiled every time he huffed air to blow them aside.

Ori was just smiling at him nonstop. The scribe was an excellent ally. He also was overlooked more often than not. The pair of them, one considered unaware, and one considered unthreatening, had spent most of the day wandering the decrepit streets. Bridges. Walkways.

Whatever they were, they needed repair. He had nearly put his foot through one of them.

That was the way of men though. They lived contentedly in things slapped together just strong enough to survive the moment, and never bothered to think of ways to build something properly. If they took the mountain Bifur wanted to --

No wait. That’d be bad luck. Better not to think past the next fight they’d have to manage. Seeing as that was almost definitely going to involve an airborne firebreather that an army hadn’t brought down, they didn’t need to tempt the Valar into punishing them for being overconfident.

He still had a brief image of bringing toys to the children of Esgaroth, Dale and Erebor. Or maybe Esgaroth would fade once Dale was rebuilt. It didn’t matter. Children would receive toys. Whether they could buy them or not.

The elf, Kíli, Dwalin, Dori, and several others had been dispatched for materials and weapons to convert into larger weapons. There was nothing quite like dwarven ingenuity; combined with elvish experience, it ought to turn out several creations that would allow them to challenge the dragon. Ori had sketched several things after listening to the descriptions, all of which seemed like they would be very effective. If the limbs didn’t break themselves in half under the tension of the bowstring, that is.

That wasn’t why they were walking around though. Bifur and Ori were spying.

Somewhat spying.

They were observing.

Nori would have been more surreptitious, but since no one expected the pair of them to memorize events the way they did, it had been easy to follow the princes around the city for an hour as they shopped. Fíli had half tackled his brother when he found him, smiling too widely, and dragging him off in search of things. Possibly gifts.

It was a reasonable instinct. If Smaug ate them, they may as well have spent the last of their coin and kept it out of the worm’s hoard. Since they both were set on impressing romantic interests, it was an unstoppable instinct.

That was why they were following.

Ori had told him what he and Dwalin had seen, and the probability that Fíli would say something aloud to his brother was excellent. That would earn Bifur the purse Gloin was holding, not to mention the bragging rights for one of the fastest purses to ever pay out. Impressed as Ori had been at Bifur’s perceptiveness, it was nothing special to Bifur. The difference in the pair had been clear as quartz the moment they walked into the house. He didn’t need to hear the story about her saving the prince. They were obviously already wrapped around each other. Whether that was literally true or not remained to be seen.

There was some grumbling when Bifur pointed out to the scribe that if it did formalize between them, he would need to amend some early notes on the quest. Wouldn’t do to have something so slanderous said about a brand new member of the royal family. They followed the boys around to another shop where they held up every coat and jacket in the building, discarding each of them.

Bifur circled around a post supporting a rickety upper floor, and actually put his foot through the walkway.

The water was cold as it saturated his boot.

He was stuck with one leg outstretched and the other just below the surface.

Ori came back to help, but was laughing harder than he was pulling. Since Bifur’s attempts to pull himself up only cracked the surrounding planks more, he had to wait for assistance. With the wood breaking beneath his hands as he tried to lever himself out of the ridiculous predicament, and huffing air at the ribbon in his eye, he had few options. The sight of a few of the children from earlier on a nearby path was a mercy. They ran back and hauled him out, going so far as to navigate a raft beneath the path to give him something to stand on.

They insisted he come with them, and Ori told him in Khuzdul that he’d keep up the surveillance.

That was how Bifur found himself in a corner of an abandoned building, with a now empty mug of soup beside him, carving simple figures out of broken pieces of forgotten furniture. He only had his work knife with him, nothing that could allow him to do fine details like he normally would. He had no string or paint or ink and certainly had no time to make hinged joints like he often did.

The children had stolen his wet boot, stuffed it full of towels and set it by a tiny brazier in their hideaway. None of them could understand the words he said, but they understood his stories as he recounted them in impersonations and sound effects. Freya and Beorn went over well. The trolls went over better. They giggled and flopped over each other as he made his voice as high as he could. It wasn’t like they would know that Bilbo never sounded like that. They hung on his tales, and he spent the day amusing them.

When the sun approached the mountains in the distance, they brought him back his boot, now warm and dry, and clung their new dolls to their chests.

Young enough to accept evidence above preconception, they had realized he understood what they said instantly.

“The feast with the Master is starting soon. You have to get back to your friends. Garda already left, she has to help her dad do the serving.” The brunette who had anointed herself their leader declared. “Do you know how to get back? Dwarves get lost here sometimes, and some of the papas think you’re not very nice. We can take you home. To make sure you get there safe.”

“Katabmi id-nâla, zabdunith.”

“It’s not a problem mister dwarf!”

There was no one so helpful in the world as a child of poverty. Not all of them, but a child raised poor in a world that despised them for it, often grew to hope they would find greater compassion. They did whatever they could to help those they called their friends. They did whatever was necessary to protect them. They offered joy and help from themselves whenever they could, thinking that the world would repay them in kind.  

It rarely did.

Bifur had seen it in the children in Ered Luin. He saw it in the princes, in Ori especially. All of them that had been raised in darkness, seemed to carry around little bursts of light they were eager to share.

“Ne ikshimî dê ra kuthu jalatazralîn id-’urd, sagnariya  githlin’ugbal arrâkul mahsazbadiya.”

He patted her on the hat, and laughed when she hugged him. The others joined her, and he barely extricated himself from their hands and concerned doubt.

Bifur did know the way back to the house and the rest of the company. While he walked, with one foot warmer and cozier than the other, he decided to damn the Valar, and promised himself that as soon as they had reclaimed the mountain, he would start helping all the children that the rest of the world had overlooked.

 

* * *

 

 

Purchases slung over shoulders, and packages tucked under arms, Fíli and Kíli returned to the house. Most of the others were still wandering through town, making nice with the locals, as Balin had called it.

Considering that they had just spent nearly all of their coin in the space of a morning, Fíli and Kíli had done their part thrice over to endear the townspeople to the quest’s success. They had carefully avoided mentioning that after the mountain was reclaimed they would similarly expect the men to purchase dwarven crafts at decadent rates. For now, let them think that the river would flow with gold, or whatever their elders whispered.

They dropped the things for the trip to the mountain they had been assigned to find onto the table in the kitchen with everything else the group had obtained. Tonight they were to attend the feast with the Master of the Lake, and tomorrow, they would begin the last leg of their journey. Well, specifically, the feast began late afternoon, and they didn’t expect to board a boat until at the least midday, possibly nearer to dinner. Dwalin and Bofur had loudly proclaimed that if they were going to be eaten by a dragon, they ought to at least have a nice last night in the town.

Fíli didn’t allow himself to think that pessimistically, but wouldn’t object to a pleasant evening. If he was thinking about spending it with a certain person more than in camaraderie with the company, that was his own business.

Speaking of which.

Fíli nodded at his exuberant brother, and assumed he would bounce away to find Tauriel. Not just because the package he still carried was for her. It was simply what Kíli did whenever he could. Besotted at the very least, and for more likely enamored, Fíli was already trying to sort out how to phrase the letter he would write to their amad. Not that he was one to judge. And not that he didn’t need to include a warning of his own in that letter. With enough tact, he could persuade their mother to support the idea before she arrived with the caravans.

If he left it to Kíli, there would be no letter, no warning, and their mother would, at best, verbally lose her temper on being greeted by her two sons, both of whom had developed a fondness for non-dwarves. Of course, after that, she’d turn, see Bilbo beside Thorin-- likely wearing a consort coronet -- and in all probability, turn to march back to Ered Luin without a word.

That was if she didn’t overthrow Thorin and rule in his place on the assumption that he had clearly lost his sanity.

She would not object to the principle, or the people in question so much as being denied the information.

Thus, warning was necessary.

That was another day’s challenge. Today’s challenge was that said brother was still watching him with mildly evil expression of delight.

“What nadad?”

“I want to see if your marlûna likes her presents.”

“Ki…”

“What? I do. I helped you choose them! We went to about every merchant in this awful place because you’re too picky and entirely in--” Fíli smacked his brother across the back, and feigned innocence when it turned the gleeful taunts to a set of coughs. “You’re not going to be like uncle are you? You need to tell her. And as it’s Frey, you’ll need to set aside rather a lot of time-- I’m not sure, maybe a day or two will be long enough, but I’d make sure you clear at least a week-- and start some kind of puppet show to pull it off. Unless you go with a more direct approach of making your point.”

Kíli waggled his eyebrows in a copy of Dwalin’s favorite lascivious implication.

“Are you planning to tell Tauriel something then?” His retort came out more caustic than intended.

Fíli expected his brother to blush and demur or run away. Instead, Kíli nodded enthusiastically. “Of course I am. I just thought I might wait until I’ve known her a bit longer than a month. She’s an elf, this probably seems like a day or two to you and I. Elves are different. You know they sleep with their eyes open? Scared the shattered gypsum out of me. But they’re different than us, and I’m trying to keep that mind. If I thought she was leaving though, I would tell her right then. I would never risk her departing without knowing how I felt. I might not have another chance.” Fíli had no answer to that, nor to his brother’s unexpected impersonation of a composed and mature dwarf. “Didn’t you _ever_ listen to amad’s stories about adad?”

He hadn’t.

Kíli simpered at him, “Too busy memorizing battle tactics and how to look as majestic as uncle does weren’t you? Did you think you wouldn’t need to do this part? Or did you just assume there’d be some political setup to make sure that Ered Luin had grain for the winter? Don’t worry then nadadzanid, I’ll help you out with this. Can’t let you dance around the subject the way that Thorin and Bilbo do.”

“Think they’ll ever make an announcement? Or put in braids?”

“Eventually they will, but I can’t imagine uncle daring to do so before we take the mountain, and I can’t think that Bilbo knows he should. Ooh. There’s a thought. Do you want to tell Bilbo about dwarven customs tonight?” Kíli was beaming. Had been since they returned the night before, with stories about how the Dragon was to be slain, and how Tauriel had persuaded the bargeman. Fíli had heard the little twist of adoration in the way that Kíli had related the event, and seen how Tauriel had squirmed when the full extent of that sentiment was shown to her. He had seen the slight relief in Kíli’s new knowledge that slaying the dragon was not wholly shackled about his neck.

He was still going to face a dragon, but it wasn’t his job alone to see it dead.

The company was, overall, exuberant and enthusiastic.

For his part, Fíli was preoccupied with ensuring that everyone was ready for the task ahead. Frey first and foremost.

There was going to be no escaping Kíli though. So he ignored the plot to tease their current uncle and eventual new uncle, and headed up the stairs. Her room was his only guess on where to find her. She had been asleep still when he left to shop that dawn, and Fíli was absolutely not going to invite mockery by telling Kíli how he knew that.

Neither of them, as it turned out, could sleep without the other one nearby. Her, as she said, because of the dreams she had. Him, for a less fantastic, but no less important reason. Fíli had gone to check on her, and found her still awake long into the still of the night. She had gestured, he had accepted, and he held onto her as she spent what sleep she got trapped in nightmares. He snuck out in the morning when he heard the others moving around, and tucked the blankets a bit closer.

She was, as it turned out, still in her room, and as Fíli looked through the doorway, he was temporarily back in Rivendell. She had a comb caught in the snarl of her hair, and she was making no progress whatsoever. Kíli laughed, she startled, the wooden comb snapped in two, leaving part of it buried in the mess that had once been a braid, and she stared at the fragment in her hand as if it had just stolen the last piece of pie. Utterly betrayed and trying to find a suitable punishment.

Comically overwrought at the event, she gaped at one half then the other.

“Help please.” She squeaked, before collapsing into laughter. Fíli should have stepped forward, but was likewise overcome with the ridiculousness of the situation. Kíli tried for a minute as he snickered, but gave up, leaving the broken thing where it hung. When her laughter turned to a cough, Fíli managed to get himself under control. She drank the proffered ale in gulps, panting afterwards.

“You _knowwhat_ I _miss_? _Thegoodsteelwaterbottle_ I _hadwhenthisallstarted_. _Stillhaventgotacluewherethatwent_.” She handed back the skien, “Why you are here?”

“We brought presents for you!” Kíli half shouted, dragging her to sit on the floor with him.

“We have things for you. Presents.” Fíli reiterated when she frowned at the new word.

“Presents? _Did_ you _twoidiotsbring_ me _gifts_? _Holymothermaryinahandbasket_ you _evenputbows_.”

Kíli had the one he’d chosen held out on his palms, possibly more excited than she was.

“ _Shitthetwoof_ you _aremaking_ it _harderfor_ me _topretendthat_ I _amnotdangerously_ _closetobeingamarysue_. I _dontwanttobeamarysue_. _Marysuesdie_. _Orworseexpelled_. _Wellactuallytheygetpeoplekilled_. _Peopletheycareabout_. Sorry. I am _notnamingnamesbutitwouldtotallygetblondieherekilled_.   _Cantyallgobacktobeingrude_? I _thinkthatmightbebetterfor_ my _survivalrate_.” Frey muttered to the ground, “I _Cantevenshove Bilbo offaclifforfeedhimtothe_ dragon _since_ I _alreadypromised_ Thorin I _wouldkeephisboyfriendalive_.”

She undid the bow on Kíli’s present and her mumbling grew higher pitched. The leather-backed gloves were made for an archer, but would be better protection than her current style of none. They extended up the forearm to serve as soft vambraces. Kíli had insisted they find fingerless ones with inner arm lacing since, at the end of the day, he was a snob about those things and wanted to be sure they wouldn’t be loose. The argument he had voiced was that she was not accustomed to fighting with full gloves or proper armor, so she would be better able to adapt to archer’s kit.

Standing in the center of the market, Fíli had acquiesced, and changed his mental shopping list.

“ _Stupidgodforsakensharkweek_. _Stupidhormones_. _Nevermindthatwastwoweeksago_. _Stupidgoddamnhotdwarves_.” She blinked back whatever emotion was making her voice crack, and looked up at Kíli, “Thank you.”

“There’s more,” he said.

“More?”

“Yeah!”

She opened the rest of the presents at Kíli’s incessantly gleeful urging. They really were nothing special. The men of the Lake had barely had anything of a size she could wear, and all of it had been practical obligations. The weather was changing and the clothing the elves had given her had been worn into literal rags while in Mirkwood. She wasn’t the most graceful creature, and had caught her clothing on branches and rocks and orc blades. It was outrageous that they hadn’t mended her clothing before, and replacements were the only real options given their state. They had found trousers for a young boy in a heavy fabric that she could wear if she tucked them into her boots. Fíli had managed to find a shearling coat in a cut not dissimilar from the travelling coat she had brought to Bilbo months ago. The already tunic length shirt was much too long for her, but it would be better than the silly elvish thing she wore presently. Her boots were bizarre, but holding up well. That was fortunate since they couldn’t have found a cobbler that could make her something that fast.

It was nothing special: unmatched, cobbled together. They had no time to have any of it fitted. Most of it was well used and a bit stained. She should not have been so impacted.  But she sat there, the last present still in its wrapping at Fíli’s side, seemingly on the edge of tears as she blinked and chewed on the inside of her cheek.

He looked to Kíli, helpless to understand what he had done wrong and was met with judgement. Iglishmek was a mercy in times like this. Iglishmek, and his brother, they would save him.  While she was fiddling at the lacing on the back of the coat, he asked for help. Kíli snatched the last present instead. It was set gently onto the pile of coat where she didn’t touch it. Ever impatient, Kíli undid the tie, and showed her the knife.

She froze at the sight, and Kíli looked over to him.

That did make it clearer.

Symmetry was illuminating at times like this. While in the forest, he had overwritten much of their early treatment of her. While he had been contentedly using her as a pillow, he had forgotten the months she had spent derided and endangered. Waking up with her curled against his chest made it easy to forget that they had been awful to her for a long time.

He thought she understood that she was a part of the company now, no matter how many times she corrected him. If she failed to grasp what that meant, or if she failed to understand the implied protection and pledge he wasn’t sure. Everytime he tried to explain before this, she had turned obstinate.

Which was exactly what she was doing in front of him.

Eyes still shiny, she said, “Thank you. Kíli?”

“You’re welcome, what do you need?” His brother was winsome and eager.

“You go now.” He startled at her intransigence. “Now. You go for to see Tauriel.”

“Need time alone Frey? Don’t worry, I’ll take this lump with me.” Fíli shrugged out of Kíli’s overdramatized grab.

“ _Dontbestupidhesnotgoinganywhere_. Kíli. Go.” Steely toned, she pointed to the door. Kíli exited, laughing, with the package of arrow fletchings he’d purchased in hand. Frey turned back to Fíli. “Why? I _meanthisisthenicestthinganyof_ you _assholeshavedonefor_ me _since_ I _wokeupinthatfield_. _Thisisnicerthanthekissing_. _Notthattheresanythingwrongwiththekissing_. I _likethekissing_. _Forthatmatter_.”

She babbled at him, tossing her head back and forth, clinging to a thread of outrage to keep tears restrained, before she dragged him by the coat to kiss him. With a lap full of presents, they were limited in what they could do.

He didn’t get a chance to comment on that. She followed along with his thought process, and dropped her hands from where they had wrapped around his neck, rapidly shifting things to floor. It was good the knife was sheathed, she wasn’t paying much attention to what she did. Of course, he only was paying fractionally more, experience with weapons keeping a sliver of his mind thinking about where the potential stabbing device was.

Then the knife was moved, the clothing was dumped on top of it, and she clamored into his lap. He still had to consider the location of other potential stabbing objects, since he was carrying most of his, but that became more difficult to concentrate on as they progressed. He clung to her as they kissed, one hand on her back, and the other much lower than that.

Knowing that they were facing a dragon at the end of the journey, he had gone with his brother to the tavern and spent a pleasant evening with a gorgeous young warrior with impressive scars down his torso. Unlike that night, and unlike every other person Fíli had ever fallen into bed with, all two of them, Frey didn’t defer to him. That wasn’t actually surprising. She didn’t accede to his rank and status and heritage. He would be in control one moment and helpless the next. She trailed a hand along the edge of his coat, slowly tracing from neckline to belt. He rucked up the hem of her shirt to find skin beneath it.

He let both of his hands slide low enough to tuck under her thighs, and hauled her closer. She spread her legs wider to accommodate the shift, and they broke apart at the sound of fabric tearing. They pushed back at the same time, and saw the tear in her trousers -- the one that had just grown by more than a handspan. Frey laughed. Fíli brushed his thumb along the now visible, raised pink scar on her inner thigh.

Guilt returned.

“Thank you Fí. For presents.” She muttered into his neck where she had tucked her head. “ _Goodthingyouboughtpants._ I _thinkthesearetoast. Theyhadagoodrun. Fourmonths? Fivemonths?_ I _dontevenknowanymore. Howlonghave_ I _beenhere?_ ”

Cupping her face, he kissed her in yet another apology for how they had treated her. The comb in her hair hit his hand and he made a decision.

“You want help Frey?” She nodded, sheepishly tugging at the bit of wood.

With her seated on the ground again, he was able to start working his way through the mess as he knelt behind her. He extracted the comb, and began to unravel the disaster. Since it had been braided in two parts at the start of Mirkwood, he was able to choose a side to begin his efforts. Frey didn’t whine or curse as he started working, just flinched.

By the time he had the worst of the snarls pulled apart into sections he could hope to brush through, he could see her shoulders locked and at about the height of her ears.

“I’ll strive to be gentle, but I cannot make you a promise that I will succeed.” He murmured, pressing a kiss to the bit of skin above the collar of her shirt.

Had he promised, it would have been quickly proven false. Even working slowly, even with decades of experience salvaging Kíli’s mane, he rarely made it more than few strokes before she would wince. In apology for each one, he would kiss her neck, allowing them to trail further forward as he turned the rat’s nest back into something that could actually be washed and braided. Fíli suspected, or maybe hoped, that she was exaggerating her reactions, but as he finally deemed the first side as well attended as it could be without salves and tonics, she snuck a hand up to massage at her scalp. All the places he knew had been wrenched on the longest were rubbed and eased as she bit back whimpers.

Then he began to pick apart the mess on the other side of her head, and she groaned in anticipated pain.

“Do you want me stop?”

“ _Onlyif_ I _gettochop_ it _alloff_. _But_ you _wontletmedothatsoguess_ what? No. Do not stop.”

“But it hurts?”

She looked over her shoulder to glare at him.

“Don’t you realize I’m doing you a kindness? A present.” He clarified his statement on instinct as soon as he saw confusion pinch her lips.   

“ _Are_ you _balancingthenicebyremoving_ my _scalpinchunks_? _Isthat_ what this is?” Her mistrustful glower was so overblown it was clear she wasn’t serious. Though, if Fíli thought they could have skipped the Master’s ostentatious feast without being noticed, he had definite plans on how they would spend the last night in Laketown. Since he was a prince, and it would absolutely be noticed, he kissed her cheek, turned her head to more easily reach her hair, and began again.

It was slower than the first. In part because it was worse; a live spider, barely as big as the nail on his pinky crawled out of the mangled braid at one point. Fíli killed it, and kissed her to distract from what he’d found. She wouldn’t have taken it well. The other reason it took longer was that he kept kissing her, and each one was less innocent than the one preceding it. Hands wandered. Laces opened.

They retreated time and again to the task at hand.

She played with the hair on the left side of her head, the ends just past her collarbones. “ _Atleast_ I _gettobeprettywhen_ I see Smaug.” He paused what he was doing, fairly sure he had understood her phrase. But she wasn’t going to meet the worm. She wasn’t an archer, and Bilbo was the one tasked with retrieving black arrows. She was unpredictable and generally unhelpful if fighting a dragon. If he had his way she’d stay outside the mountain entirely until the beast was slain. He knew it was unlikely she would agree; he knew her too well for that. Still, there was no reason for the tone of resigned despair hiding under the light nonchalance.

“You are not going to meet Smaug.” He half reminded, half asked.

“I am. Yes. I and Bilbo go for night arrows...uh, Black arrows. _Whichbytheway_ you _liedto_ me _abouttelling_ me it was Night.” She tossed the answer to him.

“Bilbo will go. Not you.”

“And me. Two. One. Two. For more arrows. And… _wellandtokeephimaliveso_ Thorin _wontbefreakingoutsomuch_ . Yes. For arrows. I go with Bilbo.” She studied him, then, “You are know that. I am talk to Thorin. Thorin is talk words. He want I go with Bilbo. I am yes. We are for arrows and for Smaug follow. I am for make Bilbo not dead. Fíli, Kíli, Tauriel and all are go with arrow and make dead Smaug. You are know that.” He shook his head. “No? You not know? Oh. Yes. I _havetosneakaroundadragononce_ we _getto_ Erebor. _Probablygonnageteaten_. I _meanits_ not _asif_ I _thatstheplan_. _Howeverjustincase._ I _havetothinkthatfanfictionhasthisright_. _Lastnighthere_? _Definitelyagoodtimeforthesex_.”

She kissed him with a flicker of heat on the edge of it to make her understanding of his plans clear. Fíli’s head was spinning too fast to respond. Frey pointed at her hair to get him to finish. He did while a bit numb in the skull. Thorin had told them stories of the dragon. Amad did as well. Balin told them whenever asked.

Frey was going to face the dragon for them.

Of course she was. She was exactly that stupid. She would shrug and never notice the danger and be eaten by a dragon because she was trying to help them.

The rest of her hair finally succumbed to his ministration and lay flat. She pulled a hand through it, and beamed. “ _Ohthankgod_ I _havehairagain_. Thank you Fí.”

The declaration and claim he had been contemplating plaiting had to wait. She needed to bathe, to scrub out as much of the grit and oil as she could. It would take her quite some time. More than enough time for him to run off and find some things. Tonight would be a last chance, and he did not intend to waste it.

He told her to get her hair washed through so he could braid it off her face and out of her way. She kissed him, and left him on the floor, dazed as she ran off to scrub.

Hopefully he could convince his brother to help him manage the evening without causing uproar in the company.

 

* * *

 

The master was a wart more than a man, and his toady was something even less than that. Dwalin was a bit too intoxicated and annoyed to think of anything more clever than that.

Wart and less than a wart had been whinging at them all through the feast. On and on about how grateful they were that the dwarves were there, about how they looked forward to equitable trade agreements with the lonely mountain, how sure they were that this act of largesse would be recompensed in turn. Mostly, it was the pair of them wandering off into verbal diarrhea on how nice these dwarves seemed to be in comparison to the rats and filth that were so often the dwarves they met.

Dwalin hadn’t punched either of them. He was very proud of himself. Ori sitting next to him with a hand on his arm was why, but that didn’t matter. No one had been punched, and while it made the party a few steps shy of interesting, it was probably best from a political standpoint. Ori had said something about good behavior earlier having greater rewards in the end.

Yeah, he had turned bright red after hearing himself, but it was still a lighter shade than the one that Dwalin had gone. It was also a valid point regardless of innuendo. They needed to make nice with the town for a bit longer. They were, whether they liked it or not, operating on their generosity for the time being. Once the mountain was reclaimed and Thorin had set his grumpy arse on the throne, they could sort out respectful behavior. This was the price they had to pay.

Anyway, Nori and Bofur had found a way to make it more enjoyable.

They were getting Freya drunk.

She was more fun that way.

The meal had cleared away, most of the men had left, and those that remained were clustered around Thorin and Bilbo and Balin talking about real matters. The rest of the company was talking amongst themselves, and watching to see how many bets would be paid off on the boat the next day.

Odds favored Bilbo climbing on the boat with a brand new set of braids and beads in his hair. Nori and Bofur had spoiled a great deal of fun by hiding nothing at all when Bifur had found them tangled together in a hallway. No one knew how to treat whatever was happening with Kíli and Tauriel; half were afraid to place the bet they believed in because she was an elf. Everyone wanted to place a bet, it just was a bit dodgy on protocol.

Then there was Freya. Or, it should be better said, Fíli and Freya.

He couldn’t even call it a public secret at this point. It was far past that, though, without any direct declarations. Fíli hadn’t let her more than a few steps away from him since the start of the feast. Sure, one of the younger men had made a pass at her, but she was too oblivious to be offended. Fíli was still hovering by her, protective and and tense. They were sitting on a bench a few seats down the table, pressed closer than propriety allowed, and couldn’t have cared less.

But, that may have had something to do with how drunk she was. Still able to stand, yes, but no longer in possession of her full wits. As if she ever was.

Ori was closer to the group around her now, moving when she started trying to learn new words. Drunk was the best time to learn after all.

She tripped over the word fletching, said, ‘fecking’, and began to giggle. When she got herself back under control, the game shifted. Rather than the dwarves teaching her words, she was teaching them.

“Fuck.”

“Fick.”

“Fuck.”

“Fock?”

“No no no. Fuuuuuck. I _tslikewhenyouwereteachingme_ fasl and _allthat_. _Whichbythewayyourestillabastardforthat_.”

“Fuck?” Nori tried, inciting laughter and applause from her.

“What’s it mean then?”

“Ughhh. _Comeon_ Nori, _youresmarterthanthat_. Fuck _isfor…_ ” She flailed her hands about, then lit up, “For what Bofur and you are do!” That was followed by a hand gesture involving a single finger and a hollow fist. Nori blinked, then responded with a rhythmic pounding of his hands together. She mimicked his. Nori mimicked her, and they both collapsed in cackling laughter.

“Fuck?”

“Fuck. _Welldone. Tellyourfriends. Nextword_ : Twatwaffle.”

“Wataffle?”

Dwalin checked around the room again, a few drinks shy of blasted, and saw that even more of the men had vanished. Ori was scandalized but intrigued, and entirely wonderful to look at. Not the time though. With the Durin’s getting drunk in a town of men, he had to make sure no one would try to do anything dumber than usual.

That was why he noticed the funk in the air whenever Kíli or Fíli looked at the other one.

They’d had tiffs before. One or the other had probably been too cutting in a jibe about the ladies they were falling for. Even at their angriest, they’d never do anything to hurt the other, so Dwalin went back to looking at the rest of the room’s inhabitants.

Tauriel was beside Kíli, extremely calm and still. More like she was locked in place than like she was stationary. That, plus the loose smile that fluttered onto her face when Kíli talked to her was proof enough that she was more affected by the distilled alcohol than she wanted to admit. It was sweet and burned unpleasantly, but it did seem highly useful.

Thorin, of all people, had spoken to Dwalin about the elf’s impressive declarations. He had said it with a teary wistfulness that resulted in mocking. Though, if Dwalin had been there, he would probably have been just the same. Hearing support from corners where none was expected always brought a smile to his face. Bilbo had done it. Tauriel was doing it. If Freya could speak, she would probably do the same with her single-minded dedication to keeping the line of Durin not-dead, as she put it.

It was strange to be sitting so close to Erebor, knowing the Dragon was inside, and feeling hopeful about what the last part of their journey would bring.

They had hope though. They had a mad lass that knew the future of things, who was convinced that Smaug would fall. He had joined the quest on the surety of Óin’s portents and Thorin’s desperation, this was just a bonus.

Being a dwarf rarely meant that they’d get to have any good visit them. He liked this way of living a lot more.

Thorin signed to him a brief update. The skinny toad had asked the trio to accompany them back to the fat toad’s residence. A few minutes, no more, and Dwalin was to invent an emergency if they were not returned soon after. He checked that they needed no guards, and then agreed. Thorin inclined his head with an expression any idiot could have seen was masking murderous thoughts, and followed the pricks out the door. Bilbo and Balin walked behind, similarly exhausted with the men.

A cheer rose beside him and he saw Nori, triumphant arms upraised, with a tower of horn cups stacked in front of him. Frey’s tower wasn’t half as tall, and, as the obvious loser in whatever the game was, drank down the short cup at the center of the table. Nori lost to Bofur. Bofur beat Bombur, then lost to Fíli. Fíli beat Freya.

All of the men had vanished, leaving the dwarves, Tauriel, and Freya to their last night to celebrate. Midway through her second concession mug, Bombur broke a bench, and Freya choked. It turned to a hacking cough, and Fíli helped get her under control with a hand on her back, and his other vanished beneath the table.

There was definitely going to be a bet to pay out by dawn.

He waited until she was only intermittently coughing, before asking, “Do you need tea?”

She nodded, and smiled softly at him while he walked away. Kíli chased his brother a moment later.

Dwalin shook his head, finding Ori’s gaze from a few seats down. Much better view than the lovesick sods. He hadn’t found a suitable gift yet for the scribe, and that bothered him no end. Be that as it was, he couldn’t content himself with the inadequate crafts in the town. They were, at best, shoddy, and at worst, insulting. After they killed the dragon, he would find something in the hoard that was good enough for an opening courting gift.

Ori had accepted the stammered explanation with a too-knowing look, and said he didn’t mind, as long as Dwalin wasn’t changing his mind.

As if that would happen.

They had plenty of time though. Sure, there was a dragon left to kill. Freya had already managed to take down Azog -- though Dwalin wasn’t sure he believed it had been her to do it. It was also likely with all her ranting about Bolg that the filth would show up at some point, but it could hardly be as difficult as keeping the Durins alive in face of a dragon.

Still blew his mind that she was unconcerned about them surviving the dragon.

He wasn’t going to argue, and tempt his maker though. Apparently they were all set to easily survive a dragon. Who would have thought it.

Fíli returned from the kitchen with a ceramic mug in hand, weaving a harried path around the chairs and benches left sprawled from the festivities.

“You haven’t thought this through, nadad.” Kíli hissed as he followed.

“Yes I have.”

“Just stop a moment.” Kíli snagged Fíli’s arm, ignoring the bit of tea that sloshed over the side and stopping them just across the table from Dwalin. “You haven’t.”

“What would you do then?”

“Not this. Talk? Ask? Beg? Go to Thorin? Anything. This won’t be forgotten. It’s not the first time. It won’t be let go. You will ruin it.”

Dwalin tilted his head, pondering the brothers. Kíli had a grip that was a few steps past friendly. One of them must have commented on the other’s lady. Only answer. Combined with the worry about what all they’d be doing in the days to come, it was hardly surprising if they were snippy.

Except that a bit of sass and teasing among family was normal. Standard. Nothing to act like that about.  

Fíli yanked his arm free, and finished crossing the room to the lass that was trying to settle the last of her cough.

“Ne ibjib’ala, nadadzanid.”

Dwalin heard the breathy plea, sitting so close to the youngest of the Durins. Fíli couldn’t have. There was too much chatter and noise in the room for the entreaty to have made it to him.

“What’s that?” Dwalin leaned across the table to ask.

“Whatever’s about to happen, he deserves it. Either from her or from me.” Kíli nodded at Freya, who had taken the mug of tea with a soppy smile, well soused by the company’s collective determination that she was more fun when drunk and their attempts to apologize for past wrongs. Fíli gestured for her to drink, and Dwalin frowned at his insistence.

She raised the cup and took a few quick sips to alleviate the hacking cough. Under control, she paused and sneered at the drink. By her look it wasn’t pleasant. Fíli pushed the cup toward her mouth again and she drained as much as she could, apparently deciding to make him happy by drinking it all quickly and having done with it. The cup hadn’t left her lips -- Fíli was keeping it there -- and she hadn’t swallowed when her eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open. Tea splashed back into the cup and down her front in a burst. Frey spat a few times, abruptly repulsed, and looked horrified into the cup as she smelled it.

Fíli was utterly still.

Dwalin and Kíli watched them while the celebration continued in the rest of the room.

“Fíli. _Thattasteslike…_ ” She looked back up at Fíli, brow furrowing as she struggled to think beneath the haze of ale. “ _Youdidntdidyou?_ _Youwouldnt_.”

Sparing a glance to the archer, pair of archers actually what with Tauriel joining them, across the table, Dwalin was sure that the reason the princes were bickering was a few steps past a sibling spat. Tauriel had a hand on Kíli’s shoulder and a question in her eyes, but the dwarf ignored her in favor of watching events unfold.

“What that is Fíli?”

Dwalin couldn’t hear the answer as Gloin and Bofur cheered the next round of the stacking game.

She pulled away from him and strode to Tauriel. The stumbling drunk she had been minutes earlier was dissipating, not unlike when a fight broke out at a bar. Necessity sobered anyone up in a hurry. The cup was extended to the elf in a white-knuckled hand.

“Tauriel. What that is?”

“What is that.” Fíli echoed, correcting her, a pace behind. His head was bowed, and he spoke out of habit more than a desire to be heard.

Durins were Durins no matter the circumstance, and all of them, to a one, had a similar look when they were facing a mistake. Dwalin knew it. He was related to them after all. He had also helped raise the boys. Terror and resignation hidden behind a blanked expression and rigid control. They were taught to meet their faults head on and acknowledge the wrongs they had done to others. They were taught to never shirk their responsibility and to never sidestep guilt.

Fíli--never as expressive as his brother--was carved of stone at that moment. Matter of fact, Dwalin knew of several sculptors that could convey more emotion and movement than the lad was displaying. “Freya--”

“ _Dontyoudare_.” She spat at him. “Tauriel? Please? What is that?”

The elf smelled the contents, and took a tiny sip. “It’s tea.”

“I _knewthatpart_.” She took the cup back again, “Tea for what? It do what for things? What for me when I eat that?”

Dwalin looked at the heir, then looked at the youngest Durin’s venom, and saw the answer. Kíli was the one to say it.

“Sleep. It’s a tea to make you sleep Frey.”

Durins were known for being idiots for a reason. They were.

“Rivendell?” She said.

Kíli’s nod was curt, like he knew he was passing a judgement that could not be revoked. Dwalin saw Fíli’s throat bob.

While in their presence, frustrated and upset with them, Freya had broken things, thrown things, slapped them, wrestled her way out of holds, stolen weapons, thrown their hobbit off a cliff, and saved their lives. She had cursed and sworn and flailed and shrieked and shouted. She had reacted and overreacted to everything that impacted her in any way.

To this? She didn’t move at all.

Dwalin didn’t know the reasoning, but he knew that Fíli had tried to give her a sleep aid. It wasn’t as if he would have needed it if he wanted an invitation to her bed, and he would never have done that in any case. Which left him denying her the free agency to make her own decisions. Thorin had updated Dwalin on the plan for the dragon earlier.

Fíli must have found out as well, and disapproved.

It was worse than that though. It had just been implied that this had happened before tonight.

She hadn’t followed them out of the elven valley immediately. Dwalin had assumed it was the elves that kept her contained. Thinking back to the princes’ behavior then, to Frey’s unexplained comments at Beorn’s, a picture was being painted in his mind that went against everything he had taught them.

No one got to decide whether another had to stay safe.

Frey still hadn’t moved, mug still in her hand, and eyes fixed on it.

Fíli reached out, remorse written in every line of his body, and gently touched her arm.

She reacted, finally.

The cup flew to the side with a sharp gesture to shatter against the wall. The knife on her belt left its sheath. Frey spun, stepping back from Fíli’s reach, pushing Kíli and Tauriel out of the way to gain space. The room went silent, and every set of eyes found them.

Fíli retracted his arm and lifted his chin.

She was holding a knife, Fíli hadn’t touched any of his, and Dwalin was firmly siding with her. Kíli had warned him, bless the lad for that. Whatever she decided, Fíli deserved it. If need be, he’d stop her killing him, but that was just a matter of principle. No dwarf would think differently. They weren’t men. They didn’t prevent loved ones from joining battles out of a misplaced belief that they could make that decision for them.

Dwarves didn’t do that.

Durins were idiots sometimes.

As the tension in the air rose to a critical level, to the point that the observers barely felt able to breathe without interrupting, Thorin, Balin and Bilbo returned. They stopped just inside the doorway and joined the gaping.

Fíli looked away first, casting a glance to his beloved uncle that carried enough self flagellation that Thorin’s neutral face turned to that of a betrayed relative. He turned back to her, and the room watched her tighten and shift her grip on the blade. She fidgeted a moment longer, staring at Fíli’s chest.

When she let the knife fall, she shook her hand as if ridding it of any trace of the thing she had considered. Without a word, she sidestepped the princes, and headed for the door.

“Freya please. _Iamsorry_.” Fíli spoke a phrase in her language, a halting gambit.

She didn’t stop, only slowed long enough to say to the room at large, “I am go. You do not follow.”

Then she was out the door and gone into the darkness. The bitter words hung in the air, a declaration they had never thought to hear from their relentless pursuer. Concern and anger passed from one to the next, multiplying with each silent exchange of eye contact. Dwalin could see it building on the periphery of his vision, but was watching the prince first and foremost.

The single step he had taken as he spoke had turned him so all Dwalin could see was his back. That was enough. Battle trained, Fíli knew better than to lock his muscles like that. The perspective also meant that he saw the moment when Fíli chose to disobey her request. Her threat. He shifted, and, had there not been a table in the way, Dwalin would have tackled the dwarf to prevent a mistake of that magnitude.

He wasn’t the only one. As Fíli slipped past the others and into the night, it was with a chorus of denials and discouragement chasing him.

“Shazara!” Thorin yelled, “What happened? Kíli? Dwalin?” The momentary look of an uncle was gone, and the king was speaking to them.

“Valerian tea.” Kíli pronounced, “He found out that she was going to go with Bilbo into Erebor, and tried to give her a sleeping draught so she would remain in Laketown when we leave tomorrow.”

“Lass noticed what it was, and weren’t pleased.”

“I should think not.” Bilbo snapped, and the room exploded. No one was louder than Óin, who was bellowing about alcohol and Valerian. The others were not far behind. Ranging from anger that they had lost their prophet, to umbrage that Fíli would have taken the decision from her, to fury that Kíli hadn’t stopped it altogether, it was a cacophony. Dwalin was in the last camp. He was unable to understand how Kíli had known his brother’s plan and not done more to prevent it; had not warned her, or thrown the tea to the ground.

One by one they cut themselves off, turning to the door once more, where Fíli had returned.

Their prince was rigid. Blood had drenched down his mouth in rivulets. His nose was notably crooked. Just one hit then. Well deserved, and well delivered it seemed. He probably hadn’t even dodged. He’d be all colorful in a few days, swollen and puffy, with a matched set of black eyes if Dwalin’s experience was anything to go by. Which it was.

No pity.

“We travel tomorrow. Get what rest you can.” Thorin said pointedly to the group at large. It was a clear dismissal. Brief eye contact with certain dwarves was all the cue they needed to know they were to stay behind. This was a family matter. Dwalin joined Balin and Bilbo behind Thorin as their leader watched Fíli without offering to help. Kíli whispered something to Tauriel before she vanished up the stairs, and was the last to join the group.

That Óin had gone without stopping to tend to the broken nose was sign enough of the condemnation the others fostered.

“What were you thinking rayad?” Thorin began.

“Bilbo, she’ll listen to you.” Fíli answered instead, a touch frantic, “She was walking toward the main docks, she’ll listen to you. She drank some of it, she might fall asleep and land in the lake, just go, please?”

“I’d prefer my nose remain unbroken, thank you very much.”

“She won’t, I shouldn’t have--”

“She told this idiot not to follow, and he did. That’s who she was really talking to. That’s his own fault.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and checked with Thorin, whose expression held reluctant concession. With a sigh, he tugged his warm brown coat closer, and stomped back out the door.

That had been as much about privacy as it was about finding her. Now the only dwarves left were family. If he was about to be down dressed as severely as Dwalin expected, it was no wonder that he wanted to have none but family and mentors as witnesses.

“Rayad. What were you thinking?” Thorin repeated.

“You asked her to go with Bilbo into the Mountain.”

“I did.”

“She agreed.”

“Yes, she did.”

“That is why.”

Fíli hadn’t brushed aside the blood slowly leaking from his nose, staining his moustache and beard. He wore it like a badge, not shrinking from what he had intended to do. There were worse crimes amongst dwarves, innumerable ones worse than this. It still had them all sick and twisted inside.

“It is not your decision.”

“Why did you want her to go with Bilbo, uzbad? Did you think she would enjoy the sights of Erebor? Did you think she would forsee a calamity and prevent it? Or did you think she would do what she could to keep him alive if the dragon wakes early?”

Dwalin knew that answer. So did everyone else.

“She is not a dwarf, and has a better chance of passing unseen than one of us.” That was a rare valid counterpoint.

“Bilbo has a magic ring. She doesn’t.”

“She agreed to it.”

“Of course she did uzbad, she’s been trying to help since Hobbiton, she doesn’t need new excuses to risk her life to help us.”

“Lad. She wouldn’t have agreed if she thought she’d not survive it. She knows what’s coming.” Dwalin said.

Balin and Fíli shared a look, and the old dwarf made a nondescript sound in the back of his throat. “She’s not the most adept at recognizing dangers to herself. And she does not know everything.”

“Why didn’t you speak to her of this, then?”

“She wouldn’t have understood.” He shook his head and cursed when the flow of blood dropped from his chin. Fíli caught the spattered drops on his hand, wiping the worst of it onto his sleeve with the dozens of other stains on the leather. Kíli, who had watched his brother’s defense with shadowed eyes, returned to compassion first.

He dragged him to a chair, forced him to sit, had a brief conversation in the silent, secret fraternal language of theirs, and vanished to the kitchen. Returning with a bowl of water and a cloth, Kíli started cleaning off the blood, muttering low and fast a barbed lecture. The fragments that Dwalin could hear were enough to make him wince.

Balin and Thorin allowed it, waiting while Kíli wrung out the cloth, kept scrubbing, and finally wrapped it over his hand, still dripping a faint pink, to set his brother’s nose. The crunch was louder than Fíli’s reaction. Kíli cleaned the new runs of blood, and returned to the kitchen to fetch a fresh skein of the potent sweet liquor the Master had brought. It was set on the table beside a cup, but not poured. Kíli nodded at his brother, nodded to the others and went upstairs.

That was as far as fraternal love went.

Dwalin waited to follow his king’s lead.

After a moment of observation of the prince, all three dwarves joined him in silence.

It was taking Bilbo longer than they had expected to bring her back. He was a persuasive little hobbit, regardless of the language difference; he would manage it. At Thorin’s insistence, Balin went to his bed when an hour passed. Dwalin ignored the order directed at him.

Another hour saw Thorin tell Fíli to find what rest he could to be fit for the journey the next day.

“I’ll wait.”

“Exhausting yourself does you no favor, you’ve barely recovered from Mirkwood.”

“No.”

“She’s not going to want to see you lad.”

“No.”

“So why are you still sitting there?”

Fíli looked up from his hands, eyes and nose starting to swell beneath the redness, “You didn’t hear what Kíli told me did you? Durins do not run from a fight. We do not hide from the decisions we make. We do not allow others to carry our burdens.”

“Just so, ingadan.” Thorin gestured to the liquor, and poured out three glasses. Dwalin crossed back to where the standoff had occurred, and retrieved the knife. It stopped Thorin as he extended a glass to Fíli, “Hers? I thought she had no knife, she had carried one of yours when you arrived.”

“It’s hers.” Dwalin said.

“It was a gift.” Fíli answered simultaneously.

“A gift?”

“Not-- not a gift -- a present. She needed clothing and weapons.” Thorin’s exasperation was plain to see, and Dwalin echoed it, not that Fíli looked up from the carved bone handled blade. “It wasn’t-- she wouldn’t have understood. It wasn’t a gift, I misspoke.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes at the attempt to lessen the damage. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t understood it. What mattered had been his intent. What mattered was that she had drawn it against him anger, and left it behind when she departed. That was another day’s problem. Someone would need to explain to her what all she’d inadvertently said. He would volunteer Bilbo for the task, except that meant explaining it to him first, and that might provoke Thorin’s ire. This would all be running a lot smoother if the Durins could fall for dwarves instead.

So. That was another day’s problem. Today’s, and for the next week or two, the problem had to be the dragon they were planning to slay.

It was well past midnight when the first note of worry entered their minds.

New cups of alcohol sat untouched in their hands as they waited. Fíli said nothing. Behind his back and over his head, Dwalin and Thorin spoke in iglishmek, considering sending Dwalin to find them. They considered and rejected the idea that she might have hurt him, and realized the only choice would be to wait.

By the time the dawn began to tinge the sky in greys and pinks, without the return of either, both of the Durins sitting beside Dwalin were watching the door with backs too straight, and unease barely masked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go admire the glorious [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles), greatest of Betas, and totally the reason I thought to do this. So. It might be less 'admire', and more, 'throw rocks at'. I'll be over here cackling like the disney villain I am. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Khuzdul**
> 
> Katabmi id-nâla, zabdunith. : I know the path little queen  
> Ne ikshimî dê : Don’t worry about me,  
> ra kuthu jalatazralîn id-’urd, : and when we take back the mountain  
> sagnariya  githlin’ugbal arrâkul mahsazbadiya : you’ll have a better secret fortress to rule  
> marlûna : lady love  
> Ne ibjib’ala, nadadzanid. : Don’t choose this big brother.  
> Shazara : Silence!  
> Uzbad : King  
> Rayad : Heir  
> Ingadan : Near son


	23. A Kind of Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is still a bit of light to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. Guys. Guys. I have got so many words written. Really. And I'm not going to make you wait forever for them either.  
> So you go, and you offer good vibes towards Meph, who has tolerated me whining, and flailed with me when I got too excited.  
> Khuzdul and Sindarin at the bottom and on hover.

Kíli stood in the hallway for long quiet minutes, waiting for his courage to reach a level that would let him face his goal. The sun had lifted from the horizon and the light turned from grey to something cleaner before he knocked on the door. Tauriel opened it promptly enough he knew he had not woken her, and gestured him inside. It was early morning yet, and anyone but an elf would have been a disheveled mess. Not just because of the hour, but because he knew how much of the spirits and ale she had consumed the night before. He had tried to keep up at first, out of pride; that plan was abandoned when it became distinctly pointless. He would fail. Plus, he couldn’t afford to be too drunk to stop his sober, but stupid, brother from making catastrophic mistakes.

In that, he had failed spectacularly.

He had tried.

However, he had failed, and that meant his efforts counted for nothing.

While he’d take no part in it if asked, he knew that there was a purse in Glóin’s book on whether they would ever see Frey again. Kíli hoped they would. Not because they would lose her predictions. And not because of a different bet he had placed.

Tauriel was watching him, and Kíli shook himself out of his daydreaming on dreary subjects to pay attention to the better things in front of him. She was exquisite. He had a niggling suspicion that she could fall in the lake and still look flawlessly composed. That was just what elves did. She had the advantage of being exceptional at it.

“Your brother, he is well?”

“I set his broken nose.”

“That is not what I meant, Kíli.”

“No, he isn’t,” he conceded, “I told him not to do it. I warned him, and he was too….my brother can get stupid when protecting people at times. He’d probably let himself get captured if he thought it would let me get away from whatever it was. He’d let himself get killed for the chance it might help our uncle. It wouldn’t occur to him what that would do to us.”

“And how is she?”

Kíli shrugged, without any update on that subject. There hadn’t been any shrieking or crashing during the night, and he’d poked his head in her empty room as he came down the hall.

“You did not warn her.”

“He made me promise.”

“You agreed to such a thing?” Her disdain was obvious, and sent a flash of tension through his chest. While he shook his head, it occurred to him that when the rest of the company found out, and they would, he was going to be a pariah at best, and, far more likely, he would get to match his brother’s injury. His guess was on Óin.

“He is my brother Tauriel. He found me yesterday before the feast and asked for my help finding some tea. He asked for a vow I would not tell anyone about his request. I thought it would be him dragging me around town to find some yellow fennel or rue. I thought that was odd, but probably a good notion since she’s not always all the way with us and might not think of it herself.” Tauriel’s eyes narrowed, but showed no understanding; Kíli made a note to learn more about elves before assuming things on that subject, and continued, “After I swore silence, he told me what he intended. I spent most of the day trying to talk him into being less of a fool.”

“You should have done more.” Tauriel spoke in a voice as gentle and melodic as she ever did, not that it stopped her from passing judgement on him. “If she was not what you have claimed that she is, you should have done more to stop him. That you chose not to when you knew what would come of it is not a mark of the nobility and rectitude I thought I had seen in you before now. I have no kin of my blood left in this world, but there are those that I would call my brothers and sisters. To allow them to make such an error could only be seen as proof that I did not love them well enough to do what they needed most.”

There wasn’t much to say to that. Tauriel at least had said it nicely. One day, when his amad heard about it -- and she would, his companions had no mercy-- he’d have to face down a critic whose opinion had dictated most of Kíli’s decisions in life thus far.

He had only one defense; he hadn’t believed Fíli would follow through, and that meant little.

Tauriel folded onto a chair and motioned for Kíli to do the same.

“There is much for us to discuss.”

The serious note startled him, and his mouth blurted out his fear, “You’re leaving?”

“No.” She smiled at the table, then looked up sternly, “We must plan for the dragon. We leave today.”

It wasn’t the topic he had bolstered his courage to bring up, but it was much better than her announcing a departure.

“Yes. We. Yes, we should. Uh… what did you want to discuss?”

“I believe we should bring twisted point arrowheads. Or hollow points. We can make the change to our supplies of shafts as we travel in the coming days.”

“I thought the plan was to use the larger bows that the others gathered materials for?”

“It is, and I expect that those will be the correct approach to fell the beast. Nevertheless. I have come to the conclusion that some manner of distraction might be beneficial to encourage the beast to open his defenses. In the tales that I have heard sung of dragons, they are known to speak at length. I do not believe that we could pierce his scales with arrows as small as could be cast from the bows that you or I carry, but we may have a chance at softer targets.”

“You...think we can shoot him in the mouth while he talks?”

“Or the eye.”

“Like the spiders.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at him softly enough that Kíli had to struggle not to melt on the spot. She was displeased with him certainly, but she would not abandon them. There was still a light of amusement in the sparkling of her eyes.

Her plan was sound, though, the others would be useless at it. Unless the dragon was directly atop them, totally stationary, and Mahal himself blessed their efforts, the shot would be too much for them to manage. Thorin, possibly, could do it. Otherwise it would have to be one of the pair of them.

Fear and doubt could cripple a dwarf, but Kíli had not spent his life hearing stories of the mountain and of the things that they had lost, just to fail his family when it mattered most. Since they had left Beorn’s home, Kíli had been bracing himself to face Freya’s assertion that he would be the one to kill the dragon. Despite the endless jibes and jests, Fíli had been stalwart in his belief that Kíli could do it. That meant a lot. Enough that Kíli had not denied it to himself.

Yes, with it looming so near, the grip of fear was stronger. There was always the chance that Frey’s second mandate was true, and that Bard would become the dragonslayer. Or Tauriel would find her mark and prevail.

They would find a way.

The dragon would fall.

“Kíli?” Her voice startled him out of his internal preoccupation again. “The market should be open by now. We can find a smith there.”

This was not what he had intended to discuss or do when he left his bed, but as it would involve walking through the town with her, he did not argue. A brief detour to find his cloak, and another to notice that Fíli was not in his bed, and they were ready to depart.

He at least could have some element of goodness before they boarded the boat that afternoon.

Tauriel raised her hand to stop his distracted descent down the stairs. She was on the final step, and at her hesitation, he silently joined her there. Around the corner, in the main chamber, they could hear Thorin’s rumble. Whatever Thorin had been saying stopped as Kíli heard the last words about honesty.

Perhaps they should retreat. If his uncle was having a private moment with Bilbo, he didn’t want to hear it. Ever. But, if it it was something about Frey, his dunderheaded brother would want to hear.

“That knife you gave her.” His uncle continued after a breath.

“She lost hers.” Ah. Fíli. That was that mystery solved then. Fíli’s bed looked unused because it was.

“You gave her a knife as a gift.”

“A present.”

Tauriel wouldn’t understand if his kin began to discuss the particulars of that distinction. Kíli had heard about the subtle differentiation at length the day before, and as he had also been purchasing things to give to a non-dwarf that he thought might be made skittish by the prospect of the implication, he wasn’t in a position to pass judgement.

“Ingadan, lutunên diblal mâ d’ugrad huhûd.”

“She won’t forgive me for this at all.” His brother did not sound upset, only resigned.

There was no way to easily slip into that kind of conversation, so Kíli made a quick decision. He slipped up to the second floor as quietly as he could, then reversed, stomping down them to announce his approach. Kíli heard them jerk upright when chairs squawked, and they were watching the stairwell by the time he rounded the corner. Both were tired, but Fíli looked worse. The shadows under his eyes weren’t from lack of sleep; they were vibrantly growing bruises. He wasn’t overly swollen, but he was very puffy. And splotched in darkening purple.

Served him right.

“Not back yet then?” He directed the question to his uncle.

Fíli was the one to answer.

“No. Bilbo isn’t back.”

“We’ll keep an eye in the market for the pair of them.”

“Market? We purchased supplies yesterday, and we will need to leave as soon as they return.” Thorin had more wrinkles than normal today. It was impossible, but it seemed his hair had new streaks of grey in it as well.

“Tauriel and I want to find better arrowheads. I found new fletchings yesterday, but Tauriel thinks we will need to distract Smaug. We need hollow tips, or twisted tips. One of the smiths might have something.”

Thorin nodded, and Kíli would have dragged Tauriel by the belt if she hadn’t left as eagerly as he did. Until something drastic changed, he had no desire to speak to his brother. By the look he had recieved, his brother had no desire to speak to him. Only, Kíli couldn’t tell if Fíli’s reluctance was born of anger or shame.

Maybe they would find Frey and Bilbo in the market, beg her not to break Fíli’s nose a second time, and leave as scheduled at noon.

And maybe Dwalin would punch the dragon to death.

Despite the tension, despite the storm cloud that hung over them, the market was pleasant, and Kíli teased Tauriel as she scoffed at the workmanship of the first smith they visited. Really, elves could be worse than dwarves when it came to weapons. She was right though, they had been shoddy. As were the goods of the next smith. The third passed muster, and they bought out his supply.

Either this would be one of the last things he ever did, or he was about to be in possession of a fourteenth share of the wealth of Erebor, and a prince in practice not just name. Emptying his purse on the chance of improving the odds that it be the latter seemed practical. At the very least, the smith would remember him fondly if it turned out to be the former.

An hour later, comparing stories on the best shot they had ever made, and competing in their braggadocio on who would bring Smaug down, Kíli had to hold back the impulse to climb a fence and kiss her. She lit up when prodded. Starlight shone brighter when she was fighting, even in this little barbless squabble of words. She wasn’t still and calm and dull like the elves of Rivendell. She wasn’t arrogant and rude like the rest of the elves in Mirkwood. She kept apace of his conversation, and added to his arguments with genuine passion. She wasn’t intractable and worn down like the dwarves of Ered Luin. She looked at the world and saw hope and a brighter tomorrow.

Unlike some, he had no intention of ruining his chances by doing something stupid.

They were returning to the house, expecting to rush to the docks and onto the boat when Nori found them. The dwarf had a grimace fierce enough that Kíli expected someone had died.

“Change ‘a plan. The both of them are still off hiding wherever it is they’ve decided ta go. Off with ya, see if ya can chase ‘em down.”

“If we don’t find them?” He had to ask, “Durin’s day is near, we cannot delay. We cannot wait past tomorrow.”

“Aye.”

“So if we don’t find them tonight?” He was asking about his Uncle’s decision, but Nori knew everything. Nori shrugged, and walked away, sidling up to a shopkeeper to ask about the gossip before he had made it ten feet.

“Your uncle would leave them behind?”

“At this point I think it counts as them leaving us. They know we need to reach the mountain. Tauriel,” He interrupted himself, “you made the choice to come with us. All of us made the same. If they have chosen not to continue, that cannot be an obstacle to what we must do. Smaug cannot be allowed to remain in our home. If every other companion turns aside, I will still follow where my uncle leads. Do not condemn him for doing what must be done. ”

“I wasn’t. Estelion allen.”

She set a hand against his cheek, understanding his vigorous assertion. They stayed there until she realized what she had done, and jerked her hand back awkwardly, once again uneasy by the expression of sentiment. She was as bad as Thorin sometimes. He caught her hand before she could pull away.

“Tauriel? Why did you follow us? Why are you travelling with us? We’re dwarves.”

“As I said to Bard, we cannot allow the darkness of the world to dictate what we do.”

“Then why not lead your company into the forest and banish the spiders there? Why did you come to find us? Why did you leave your home?”

“Smaug will one day join forces with a larger evil unless he is slain.”

Kíli didn't want to push too far and set her running, but the obvious discomfort and lies left him eager to know what it was that she was not saying. “Only because of the greater good? I’ll be sure Ori dedicates several pages to you.” The teasing was light, and he already intended to see that Ori dedicated at least a dozen pages to her. She flushed at it.

The market was a tepid underscore of conversation and shouting, and Tauriel was clearly uncomfortable, but did not withdraw her hand from between his. She held on tighter.

“There were new reports of orcs in the forest near the river, hunting.” Her mouth tweaked in a smirk, “I was worried you would not find your bow.”

An answering smile bloomed on his cheeks, and Kíli was sure he looked as foolish and young as he felt. “Just worried about my bow?”

“And for you.” The words slipped out of her almost without permission, but she straightened as soon as she heard herself, refusing to back away from it once it had been said. He wished there was a fence nearby.

Since there wasn’t, and since they were still on the fringe of a bustling market, he pressed a kiss to the knuckles of the hand he held. If he was older, or more charming, he would have known what to say then. So he said nothing, and laced their fingers together for a moment. They decided as a unit to continue their exploration of the town, now searching for a hobbit, and a whatever Frey was.

It wasn’t the time or the place for him to tell her how he felt. That could happen one day as they made for the mountain. That _would_ happen. If he was willing to hold nothing back in his purse on the chance the dragon would kill them all, then he could not justify holding anything back in his heart either.

For the rest of the day, he continued to provoke warm smiles, and talked with all earnestness about what they planned to do. What they would do after. Whether they could make a game of hunting down the spiders of the forest because they would surely have time to spare to rid the world of evil after the dragon fell. He talked in hyperbole and compliments, and kept that gleam settled in her eyes where it seemed so natural. They scoured the city until the sun sank to the ridgeline, and shadows drew darkness between the buildings.

In truth, they did very little looking for anyone, so their inability to find someone was not a shock.

Hopefully the others had been blessed with greater success. He felt blessed enough for the day.

They were gazing up at the emerging stars on the edge of the city, Tauriel explaining their stories, neither willing to let go of the sliver of a day they had left to share, when they heard a scream rise in terror, and cut off in death.

 

* * *

 

Bifur and Bofur tromped back through the door of the house and shrugged their lack of success to Balin. Their missing companions didn’t want to be found, so they wouldn’t be. Bit weird of Bilbo to be in such a strop that it would make him late for something, but if she was being obstinate, it made some sense. She would be hard to drag anywhere she didn’t want to go.

Translated through Bof, the little ones in the town had assisted as they could, scampering about and checking through areas that they wouldn’t have known existed otherwise. They climbed into buildings, and slid between boards to investigate alleys. Not that it changed anything. Bilbo and Freya weren’t coming out of hiding.

Bifur wasn’t going to blame them for that reaction. No, he might blame Bilbo a bit since the hobbit had to be sitting out there, well aware of how much consternation his absence was causing.  Bifur paused, considering what he’d just thought before taking the offered bowl of stew. No. He of all people knew that a lack of a ability to communicate wasn’t the same as a lack of understanding. Freya knew what she was doing. She wasn’t blind. She knew what this would be doing to the company.

She was angry enough she didn’t care. With good reason.

After this long, Bilbo must have found her, and that meant the hobbit was on her side.

None of the others were condemning her for that by the look of it. What he’d heard from his kin, and from the others as they’d left the main room the night before had been an overwhelming disapproval of Fíli’s actions. Óin informed them that this had happened before.

Nori confirmed it, admitting his complicity in events in the elven city.

As Glóin of all dwarves leapt forward to crack Nori in the face, Bofur flung himself into the larger dwarf fast enough to prevent a second broken nose. Bifur had to be proud of the speed, and the loyalty, of his cousin.

They were most of the way to noon of the next day before Nori managed to convince everyone else that it had been the right decision in Rivendell. Bofur had helped make that argument. As irrationally angry as Thorin had been at her then, and as helpless as they’d thought she’d be on the road, it had been an effort to save her life. Bofur’s case included a good deal more whining about how annoying she had been then, but he remained steadfast in his defense of Nori’s choice.

How could he not? After finding the pair half dressed and halfway through the door into a closet -- which Bifur wanted to scrub from his brain as entirely as his ability to speak westron had been -- of course Bofur was going to support whatever argument Nori made.

When Nori, forgiven, switched to agreeing with their anger at Fíli’s more recent decision, Bofur had stopped talking. Didn’t disagree, didn’t argue against it, just... stopped talking.

He wasn’t going to ask, and he knew his cousin would deny it, but Bofur thought that leaving her behind, by whatever means, was the best course. It resurrected Bifur’s question of what had happened in the forest to change Bofur’s opinion on the lass. That had to wait for another day.

Bifur ate the fish stew -- it was always fish stew on the Lake -- with a sneer.

The sun was setting. They hadn’t found Frey. They hadn’t found Bilbo. They hadn’t left the town. In the morning they would, no matter what. Durin’s Day was fast approaching. Wherever they were, and Bifur did have an unvoiced theory on that, the company couldn’t miss the window and fail to open that door.

He was set to turn in early.

Several of the others were still out looking, which meant someone needed to get some rest and help on the boat the next day.

Bifur hadn’t left the table, and hadn’t finished his meal, when he heard a faint clamor.

It turned into a louder clamor.

Before he could guess what was happening, the door flew open and four of the younglings tumbled through shouting for him. Bofur, further down the table, tensed, both of them expecting the children to announce they had found Bilbo.

Children from the West would have been crying and panicked. These tiny hardened creatures fell silent as they saw him, and the oldest, a boy with black hair and bare feet, stepped closer.

“There are orcs in the town. The guard didn’t believe us so we came here.” If his voice croaked a bit on fear, there was no one that could blame him.

“Rakhâs Igrêb!” Bifur shouted, falling into long memorized plans and tactics.

It had been thirty years since the last orc raiding party had gotten through the outer defenses of Ered Luin. They skirmished regularly with them on roads and when they travelled, but marauding orcs within a town were a dark omen. Every dwarf in the building was scrambling into practiced action. Ori had vanished up the stairs like a shot, and was already hurrying back with a hammer over his shoulder. Bombur and Glóin, parents, and battered by memories of children slain by attackers, had rushed to Bifur to help.

“Where?”

“They came over the bridge after the fog rose, but we couldn’t reach the release in time to bring it down.”

“Where were they going?”

“Toward the market.”

“Ignigî.”

Bifur’s snapped instruction was pointless, Glóin and Bombur had already gone.

As had nearly all the others. Not everyone was in the house. Kíli and Tauriel had not yet returned, Nori and Óin had still been in the market. They would join if they heard a fight.

He shepherded the children toward the stairs and pointed. They were too young to challenge him and claim that they could help. They were not so rash as to risk themselves that way, but the youngest, a little blonde boy who shook with every step, grabbed him in a tight hug before sitting with the others.

With them situated, he followed the company, spear in hand.

Orcs in a town were butchers. They killed at will, sowed chaos and wrought havoc upon the inhabitants. They came in screaming, and did not bother with stealth. It was unsurprising the guards had not believed the children. Bifur caught a glimpse of an orc on a roofline, framed against moonlit clouds; these were not the normal roving horde. He caught up to the others just as the fight began. Too many orcs to be scouts, too few to be called an army; the dwarves were outnumbered.

He slammed his spear home in the side of hulking beast, and let the force of its removal throw the thing to a watery death. Dwalin and Ori taunted a large orc out of the safety it had claimed before taking off its leg and head. Nori had already caught up to them, and tossed his staff to Bofur, before climbing the side of a building to gain perspective. A life as a thief made him nimble enough to have scaled it where any of the others would have needed rope.

Bifur flung the staff up as soon as he gained the roof.

Seconds later they were running again, leaving dead and dying orcs behind, chasing after Nori’s silhouette on the rooftops.  They could see shadows ahead, on the ground and against the sky. Thorin and Fíli were far ahead of the others, Balin beside them, and were cut off when a force of half a dozen rushed from a crossbridge. There wasn’t time to worry about them, not even time to react.

Arrows felled two of their attackers as Bifur swung the blade of his spear through an orc’s face. Kíli and Tauriel appeared with no other preamble, from atop a building, bows in hand. They fired again at the orcs on the periphery, then rushed together. Tauriel caught Kíli’s hand and swung him as far as she could reach, helping to keep his landing safe. She sprung down with typical elvish grace, and they resumed fighting together as if they had done so for decades.

Frightened screams had followed them as they travelled, but Bifur heard when the timbre of them changed from alarm to direct confrontation.

Tauriel almost flew as she hurdled up a staircase, over the heads of several orcs, and into a house. Bifur reached Kíli a moment later, and helped the prince break free from the fight to follow her. The others would handle the clutch of orcs. They had to help whoever was shrieking with so much terror in such young voices.

Kíli was a damn sight faster than him.

Bifur crossed the threshold and found a trio of children, armed with household goods, trying to hold their own as orcs fell upon them quite literally from the ceiling. Tauriel had switched to her knives, and wielded them like extensions of her hands, gracefully ripping critical parts off of her enemies. The roof had fallen in, the window had shattered, and broken remnants of furniture cluttered the floor.

There was an intensity to the orcs in this place that had been missing in those on the street.

For whatever reason, this had been their goal.

The youngest of the children -- she looked familiar -- shattered a plate over the head of an orc that tried to grab her. The eldest crashed a short blade into its neck a moment later before being tossed across the room by its companion.

Bifur deflected a strike from a small axe, and let the anger it provoked snake him around his larger opponent.

He had enough weapons embedded in his skull.

A moment later the orc had just the right number embedded in his.

Fíli and Thorin arrived in a roar, and the fight changed. The orcs began to flee. Two disappeared through the hole in the ceiling. Two more tried to break past the Durins and jump from the stairs. The effort was doomed, and they died, torn open by swords. Shouts in black speech sounded a retreat, and khuzdul answered with battle cries. Nori’s voice rang louder than anyone. The rest of the company would be enough to manage the remaining orcs, and surely by now the guard had been raised.

Bifur set his spear at the table and turned to the youngest of the children. He had seen her only briefly while he explored the town, and he thought he had misremembered at first. She burst into tears a moment later, climbing him in a hug that forced him to sit on the bench.

A signed order kept Kíli in the house while the others hurried down the stairs.

“They will be fine Tauriel.” The elf was bow-string taut, watching for further danger. Wherever the pair had come from, it seemed that their fight had lasted some time.

They all breathed in silence for a moment, trying to regain some measure of calm. It was pointless with still-warm corpses lying about them. The boy had his arm cradled against his chest; dislocated most likely, and a thick toothed blade limp in his other hand. There was orc blood splattered across all three children, and bright red blood of their own in patches and stains they did not even seem to be aware of yet.  

Tauriel sheathed her blades and took a moment to check the broad mark and small cuts on Kíli’s cheek and brow before turning to the children.

“Where is your father? Your name is Sigrid, is it not? We came here before. Where is your father, Sigrid? Bain?”

“Da left this morning before we woke.”

Bifur filled in the holes of what he was watching with the stories the others had shared. This had to be the family that Frey had dragged them off to see. The home of the bargeman that had brought them to town. Not that that explained why orcs would want to kill these children more than others, but, anyone that Frey considered valuable was probably a threat to the enemy, whether they knew it yet or not. Which left a question remaining; why the orcs knew something the younglings didn’t. He would have to bring it up with Óin as soon as he saw him.

Sigrid had no other answer, and turned obstinate. She made Kíli and her brother sit down, and refused to let them help her arm and side until the elf had seen to her sister.

Tilda curled in Bifur’s lap and looked away while Tauriel sluiced the blood off her palms. The abrasions beneath were likely from ducking to safety at some point before their arrival, but the lone cut had happened when the child smashed that orc with the plate.

The children of the East did not cower in a fight, but they did cry in the aftermath.

He was going to be well occupied in his craft for years to come. This family alone would keep him busy.

Fíli returned in a rush, checking his brother immediately for any injury.

“Just got my head cracked against a post. I’m fine Fi. Your face is worse off than mine.” There was a lingering mire of distrust in the air between them, but the bonds of family were strong enough that they had checked the other’s health.

“The others are pursuing the rest, but Nori saw wargs; we will not catch them all.” Thorin announced as he entered. “But it seems that this home was targeted.” He paused, and looked around the room. “I believe…. I have been here.”

“This is Bard’s home, uncle, you’ve been here twice.”

“They attacked this place in particular.”

“Yes, but we do not know why.”

“Were those the same orcs you saw in the forest Fíli?”

“They may have been.”

Thorin hesitated at that pronouncement, but made no comment. His eyes merely darkened as he righted the few pieces of usable furniture, and dragged the corpses to a pile.

The sounds of the others had faded from earshot except occasional distant yells.

The house was almost silent save for the little one crying in Bifur’s lap.  

Feet pounding on the planks of Laketown’s streets set them all on edge. Thorin and Kíli fell into position to defend the others. Tauriel abandoned her task to retake her bow. Fíli moved Bain and Sigrid behind him and raised his swords once more.

If it was another attack, Bifur would be getting the young ones out of the room. They’d held their own admirably, but there was no cause to keep them in the line of danger. If they were the target, for whatever reason, then there was even more cause to get them to safety.

Bard’s voice reached them, in time with the sound of a run up the stairs, and they eased. The children however, flung themselves forward, nearly knocking their father over as he came through the doorway. Panic, shouted queries and trembling answers made the room chaos for a moment. Bard’s instinctive anger at anything that brought threat to his children became gratitude as it was made clear that the dwarves had saved their lives.

He fussed at their injuries, but could do little to tend them since Tilda had wrapped herself around his chest without any intention of releasing him. Not wanting to dislodge her as she cried anew, the man cast a pleading look to the dwarves for aid. Fíli stepped forward beside Tauriel. The elf helped Bain reset his shoulder, and began to wrap the arm into a sling. Fíli checked the myriad cuts on Sigrid’s arm from her fall, cleaned them, and began to wrap them in fabric pulled from a shattered cabinet.

“You have my thanks.”

“Your children did remarkably well.” Tauriel said. “Had we not come, I think they would still have seen themselves through.” Bifur had to disagree with that, but he knew why it had been said.

A flash of pride banished some of the fear from Bard’s face. “They should not have needed to, but these dark days will soon begin to fade.”

Bifur saw Thorin and Kíli tilt their heads in surprise at the man’s hopeful tone. The boatman they had met on the river had not been an optimistic fellow.

“Fade?” Thorin asked.

“When the dragon falls, some part of the shadow on this region will begin to lift.” He nodded with his youngest child still wrapped around his chest. “I believe they will succeed.”

“They?” The young prince’s voice was flat and low.

“Your companions.” It was almost a question when he spoke. They all heard the implication. They all filled in the holes.

“Iklifimun mushug lelkhar ugjaj.”

“Durinultarg, Bilbo.”

“How do you mean?” Thorin asked, calmer than the others.

“I dropped them on the northern shore of the river this afternoon, as far as I could take them, so they could reach the mountain in time.” His voice pitched into confusion.

The deepest corners of the oldest mines beneath an abandoned mountain were louder than the room was for a few moments. Bifur looked to Fíli, where he had frozen, binding Sigrid’s arm.

Bifur watched his features twist. He descended through fear and anxiety, hit the bottom, and pivoted into frustration. By the time the prince was making eye contact again, he was tight lipped, and had a slight twitch in his eye.

She caused that reaction in most of them these days.

“Of course she did.” Fíli said nothing more as he returned to his task.

Thorin’s face went meticulously blank. “Both of them?”

“Yes. As you asked them to do.” Bard was a shrewd man, and he easily read the reactions of the room. “You were unaware.”

“Yes.”

“They deceived me.”

“Yes. Though I do not know what he is thinking. Without the--” Thorin cut himself off, lifting a hand to touch his chest, and closing his eyes in exasperation.

“They intend to enter the mountain and ensure the worm’s demise. They asked that I keep a weather eye turned toward it in case they should not succeed. Master Baggins in particular was insistent that there be someone at the windlance.”

The room had been less fraught and angry when there were orcs in it. Bifur could just hear some of the others drawing closer from their hunt. The situation was clear, but hopeless. Bard watched Thorin more than the rest, realizing what he had enabled. He lifted his chin as he came to a resolution.  

Bard crossed the strewn debris that had been his home, and extracted an oversized arrow from the rubble. He pressed it into Bain’s hands with a substantial look. Then, he handed Tilda to Sigrid. The orders he was giving them were blatant yet unspoken.

The siblings paused, looking between each other. Tilda tilted her head toward Bain, who shrugged. Sigrid scrutinized her brother, inclined her head with a glance art her brother’s arm. He bobbed his chin toward her side. The boy looked back to Tilda, then nodded.

They amended Bard’s decision.

Tilda clambered onto Bain’s good side, and the arrow passed to Sigrid. She raised her chin and they all faced their father.

Prouder than anything, the bargeman acknowledged their choice. For scarcely a breath, the family leaned toward each other in encouragement.

When he turned back, his eyes were dour, and he stared at Tauriel twice as long as any other, as if the elf’s incongruous allegiance to the company was more important than the dwarves’ very existence.

“We depart at grey dawn.”

“You think to join us?”

“I do Master Oakenshield. There is no cause to look so distressed over an offer of aid.” Bard’s cheek twitched.  “I’ll attempt to make you comfortable, perhaps those barrels are still empty.”

  


* * *

 

“Bilbo. You are idiot. Big idiot. _Andyouhavereallyfuckingstupidplans_. Ow. _Andyoureheavy_. _Cannotbelieveyoutalkedmeintothisbullshit_. _Iwasjustgoingtogogetblastedandannoy_ Bard _andthekids_. _Butoffuckingcoursethatwasntgoodenough_. Bilbo Baggins _bullshitartist_. _Hehastosweettalkmeintothisdumbass--_ _youknowweregonnadieright? Yougetthat? OrIwill. Youhaveyourringandcanonseemstbetakingcareofyou._ ”

He ignored her whining, and hauled himself up the next of the stones, with the help of her hands beneath his foot. Damnable dwarves of old were worse than the damnable dwarves of present. On a wider platform, he turned and held out a hand to help her up the rise. the builders of the confounded staircase considered the miniature cliffs to be perfectly acceptable heights for steps. They also thought that anyone who might need to use the horrid excuse for a staircase would be able to simply jump from one side to the other. Never mind that the gap was wider than he was tall. Never mind that one of them was broken, and thus, particularly wide, and he had to climb up onto Frey’s shoulders while she stood on a lower step so he could reach the ledge at all.

If he could have, he would have stripped off his coat, both for ease of movement, and to stop sweating quite so much. Shy of tying it about his waist though, where it would tangle in his legs as he leapt from place to place, there was nothing for it. They had a mountain to climb, and their small packs and bags were already full.

She scowled at him as she took the three paces and slumped against the next stair they had to climb. The first ones had been easy enough, shorter than these, just above waist high. Back when they still had the arm strength to hoist themselves up, and swing their legs over, they had made good time. After they had mounted a third of them, both had started shaking. It was as bad as the Carrock.

No. Worse. They climbed down the Carrock.

At least it was autumn. Of course it was autumn. If it wasn’t autumn there would have been time to delay this nonsense. Instead, they were scurrying up the side of a mountain because, while the dwarves weren’t quite clear about precisely when Durin’s Day would be, the moon had been waning towards new for days and he was taking no chances. It had been too cloudy the night before to know, but there may have been no moon at all.

“ _Weregoingtogetdead, Bilbo. Andthesestairswerentsosteepinthemovie. Isweartofucktheywerent. Ihatethisplacesomuch. Fuckingdwarves._ Ugh. More?”

Bilbo nodded, she knelt to provide a step stool, and cupped her hands for his other foot.

Nearly there.

The sun was brushing the tops of the mountains as the stairs lost their absurd angle, and they crossed a narrow bridge to reach an open area that had to be their goal. It had to be.  He would have preferred that the door be visible as they approached, but to hear Thorin and Balin talk about dwarven craftsmanship, an empty stone wall with seemingly nothing special about it was a very encouraging sign.

That morning, she had scowled at the giant carved dwarf when he pointed it out, and been less than enthusiastic as she concurred that it was correct, but she _had_ confirmed it. Fortunately, Bilbo had been bothering Thorin about this for months. He had thought himself right when they started climbing. He was wholly confident now.

“Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s day, will shine upon the keyhole.” He looked over the blank stone.

Well. It was grey.

As was the entire side of the mountain. Which made that section of verse a bit shy of helpful. He felt his nose twitch.

She shrugged and dropped against a boulder, far from the precipice, to wait out the sun’s descent.

They ate waybread and dried meat for the sixth evening in a row, without a fire or any true comfort. After Bard had dropped them as far up the river as his boat could travel, they had marched as quickly as they could, knowing that the rest would follow. Carrying little, they made good time. Unfortunately, the Dragon’s blight was stripped of life and foliage. Bilbo might have managed to start a small fire from the bits of shrubs that grew there, but it would be too easy to set the entire region aflame. Without the dwarves around to distract them, he had spent most of his time planning and trying to teach her enough westron that she could be of use. She paid little attention; always in a foul mood, and often lost in her own mind.

Before they left the river’s path, she had pulled out a pat of soap, and insisted they both scrub, explaining in mime that Smaug could smell dwarf. His protests earned a snort, and she pointed to him, then herself, stating, “Thorin. Fíli. _Wesmelllikedwarvesdude_. _Iheardthepairofyou_. _Everyonedid_.”

Difficult to argue there. He might have had a bit of a smell of Thorin still lingering on his skin. It wasn’t as if he’d had time for a bath between their last encounter and the feast. They stripped out of coats, washed as much of their clothing as they could, and continued on, colder than before. As they did, she yanked out the vaguely dwarven braids that had kept her hair back, redoing them in tight plaits she tied into a bun, mumbling under her breath the entire time.

Bilbo took the opportunity to bring up the moronic dwarven princeling that was at least partially at fault for their current endeavour, and entirely at fault for her grump.

Bofur, Nori and Dwalin deserved to have their heads conked together for teaching her language like that.  She couldn’t clearly answer questions or explain what she knew, but she could swear like a brigand. The little of what came out of her mouth in westron would have twisted his father's toes curlier than the hair on his feet. The rest of it, he had to assume, was cut from the same cloth.

When he tried again later that day, she turned an alarming shade of red as she spat, “ _Lookwehavebiggershittodealwith. Itscalledadragon. Yeahmynotboyfriendtriedtodrugme. Afuckinggain. Toofuckingbad. Notimetocry. Wehaveadragontorobandanarmytobeat. Ivegot_ Durins _tosaveandadarklordplayinginmyhead. So?_ Bilbo. Do not words that. No words of Fíli. No words. Yes?”

Bilbo acceded to her furious request, and dropped the subject.

That entirely justified wrath was the impetus that had brought them to the mountain alone, after all.

In Laketown, after he had managed to track her down, they sat by an empty house, and, with the filter of kindness eradicated, she had answered his queries honestly. Two questions in, Bilbo was worried. Four questions in, he was determined.

She answered honestly. Smaug was going to find them. He would chase Thorin. The dwarves would not stop him.

Laketown would burn. Hundreds would die.

The forces of the enemy would return, and many of those that survived the dragon would perish.

Kíli would die when Tauriel could not protect him. Fíli would die helping to keep his family safe. Thorin would die with Bilbo at his side.

Unless Thorin killed Bilbo while they were still in the mountain. That part was a bit unclear.

Madness ran in his line. Thorin had warned him of it. Bilbo had seen the fault lines in his love’s personality. Gold would exacerbate them. Well, Freya told him that the gold of Erebor, ‘make big of durin head bad,’ but Bilbo had sorted out the remaining story.

If whatever curse was laid on that mountain would twist and amplify the natural negative tendencies of his dwarves, Bilbo could not see that turning to anything but disaster.

So, he wanted Thorin anywhere but that mountain.

Then Gandalf could come and be of use for once. Which meant that they needed to arm the company and the men of the lake with as many of those black arrows as they were able. If he could, he’d also bring Thorin that stone he said he needed, and there would be no excuse, and no reason for Thorin to go inside. If Smaug awoke before Gandalf arrived, they would be better fit to defend against him. If Gandalf could successfully keep to a schedule, then they would let the wizard advise their next actions.

Sitting there, in the darkest, quietest part of the night, as Freya stared up at the stars and notably forced herself to stay angry, Bilbo had made his decision.

It took hardly more than a few moments to convince her of it.

When they woke Bard in the predawn light, they were carrying everything they needed, stolen by Bilbo with his magic ring. If he had believed he could have stopped Thorin following, he would have said something to the dratted dwarf that was sitting with his kin and watching the main door of the house like his world was crumbling. Instead Bilbo snuck back out and began planning the apology he would need to deliver after.

Bard was harder, but not impossible to persuade. A few lies, a bit of charm, Frey’s presence, and the man acquiesced.

Now here they were.

He had no doubt that his foolhardy dwarf was chasing him. But by the time he caught up, Bilbo and Frey would be climbing down that horrid staircase, with everything they needed. Bilbo had no intention of disappointing in this. There was too much on the line.

“No. _NoFuckyourselfonacurlingironyoudamnpieceofjewelry. Iamnotthrowinhimofftheledge. Justshutthefuckup. Ialreadydiditonce. Notdoingitagain. Canonaintthatnice. AndwhycanIhearyou? Getoutofmyhead. Imnottouchingyouyoutwatwaffle._ ” Frey had the heels of her hands digging into her eyes, tossing her head back and forth and snarling.

She wasn’t well.

“ _GetoutofmyheadorIlltrytorememberthatcrackficwhereyoureanomegasub._ Bilbo _wasyourdom. Itwashorrible. SoshutuporIllmakeyouacockringagain.”_

Probably never had been.

She got lost in her head from time to time, staring, more often than not, off to the south. At least a dozen times he had jolted her out of her stupor when she stopped walking to stare at him. It was worse since leaving the others.

Frey was not well. No doubt about it.

“Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

“Big circle of white? And not circle of white?” She pointed to the sky.

“The moon? Moon.” He pointed as well.

“ _LikeIfuckingknowbutsure_ . Moon. We are to need moon of key. _Iftodayevenisthedayandwearentrunninglate. Otherwiseitstimeforagapyear._ ”

“Oh, it’s not sunlight is it? Hm. I can’t imagine Thorin would have taken that well. Daft tosspot would probably have marched off in a desolated huff.” Newly enlightened, he joined her seat to wait while the sun sank into the distant mountains.

Far to the other side of those peaks was his smial. The apple orchard would be empty of all but the latest stragglers. There would be pies and tarts and muffins baking each morning. He knew he had missed his birthday somewhere in the elves’ prison, but hadn’t mentioned the fact. It was bad enough he had no gifts to give; he was also in the midst of great danger. A birthday seemed inconsequential.

He could make it up the next year.

He would need to find an orchard on the eastern side of the mountains. It wouldn’t feel like fall to him without some of those treats he always baked for his birthday. He could hardly have them hauled over. First problem being that by the time they arrived it would be spring.

With a fourteenth share of the wealth of Erebor at his disposal, he could always arrange to have his own orchard here, though it would be years before it began to produce fruit.

Bilbo laughed a moment at his optimism.

Perched on a doorstep high up a mountain waiting to sneak past a dragon and he was pondering the best way to obtain quality pie in his new home. There were times -- usually while imperiled and blood spattered -- that he felt he was turning into a dwarf. This was not one of them.

“You are good?” She asked him.

“Oh yes, just fine. Thinking about what I want to eat.”

She knew enough of the words, and gaped.

“ _Holylordyouresuchahobbit. But….onthatsubject. IthinkIdkill_ Fíli _forasteakrightnow_. _ThoughtobefairifhewashereIdkillhimregardless_. _Eveniftherewasntsteak_. _Savetheorcsthetrouble_. _Butduderedmeatsoundssotasty_.” She waved off his question and continued, “You are good for Erebor, Bilbo? Good for black arrows and we are run and Smaug?”

“I don’t plan to meet the worm as it happens. But yes, I do believe I am as ready as I can be.”

She nodded, started to speak, stopped herself, started again, trailed off, and finally started chewing on her nail.

“Thank you for words with me, Bilbo. Thank you for talk with me. I am talk you more. You have present? Gollum Present?” Drawing a circle in the palm of her hand at the same time, she approached the subject cautiously. Curious, Bilbo drew it from his pocket and showed it to her, ignoring the whisper of distrust in his mind. “That. Yes. That. _Nowputitthefrickadickbackoutofsight._ ” She became uncomfortable at the sight of it and flapped her arms until it slipped back into his coat.

“What about my ring?”

“Riiing?”

“Yes, that’s my ring. Kíli had it for a time, so did you. What of it?”

“That is… _fuckIcantdotheseatthesametime…_ that is big thing. One. When Gandalf is come of Erebor? Him need for see that ring. Yes?” Though the idea twisted at him, Bilbo agreed. “Two. Where we are in Erebor. _Nowait_. When we are Erebor. You are with that. Ring. You are with ring. If Smaug is not sleep? Smaug is see Bilbo? Ring. Run. Run. Yes? Run for here. Smaug not you see. You go for Thorin, for fourteen, yes? Arrows for Thorin. For make dead Smaug.”

If it hadn’t been coming from Frey’s mouth it would have sounded like an order.

“Why?”

“ _Dontbestupid_. If Smaug not is sleep? We are death -- dead. You run? Not dead. _AtleastIhopeso_.” She shrugged at the end and pitched her voice into uncertainty.

“Yes, I understood that part. Airborne firebreather, hasn’t been seen in sixty years, probably feeling a bit peckish at this point. Why do you want me to run? Not you?”

“Pfft. I am for run too. I am not idiot. Fíli is words for I am idiot. I not am idiot. _NotsayingImbrilliantbutyouturdblossomsthinkIwanttodie. Notatall. Notevenalittle. Iwantmyafterparty. ButIcantletthefandomdown. Fuckingfandom_. You? You have ring. You run.”

“Yes. But why are trying to keep me alive? Why”

“ _Ohcomeon_ Bilbo _Iamtryingtokeep_ Thorin _happyhere_. _Ipromised_. _Andhappy_ Thorins _dontkillpeople_.” She whined her answer, but it included the answer he was looking for. Thorin hadn’t been entirely joking about Bilbo’s ability to outrun her.

His idle musing on whether Thorin would be more or less panicked by their change in plan versus the original one were cut short as a bird flew past him. The little thrush landed between the pair, and hopped around looking at the snails tucked between the stones.

“ _Fuckingreally?_ ” Frey whispered.

Bilbo ignored the knowledge that if this was the right night, they had absolutely cut this too close for comfort. He glanced, and realized the sun had dropped below the horizon. Not daring to move, they both waited, watching the little bird as it made its selection. Rapping the shell against the wall, the bird paid them no mind.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Frey climbed to her feet, dragging Bilbo up with her, clutching at his arm and throwing looks to the clouds, backlit by a slim crescent, the first appearance of the last moon of autumn. He dragged the key from an inner pocket of his coat, and let it fall to uncoil the cord bound to it. When the cloud parted, a near tangible shaft of light touched on the wall, and with a crack, both of them stared at the now visible keyhole.

They were still staring when the thrush flew off with its snack.

“ _Notgonnalie... Iwassortahopingwedfuckedthisup_.”

Bilbo, holding onto the pragmatic thought that delay might be ill-advised with a magical dwarven keyhole, crossed to it, and smiled when the key fit. It turned without complaint, and he felt the mechanism give.

That was as far as luck took them.

He pushed on what had to be the door, and it shifted barely more than an inch. The clean line that appeared at least told him he had found the correct place to push. Which was nice. But it was blasted heavy. Confounded dwarves never took into consideration that someone other than a dwarf might try to push the damned thing open. Or that was the point. The door needed dwarven strength.

Frey joined him when he asked, and they made fools of themselves, bracing against tiny ledges in the stone and flinging every ounce of their weight into it. Nearly falling over from the exertion, they managed it, inch by inch, until the smooth wall of stone had revealed a neat black square.

“ _S_ _onofabitchwouldyoulookatthat_ : Erebor.”

Bilbo gasped a breath that wanted to be a sob. This was just the sort of thing that would bring wistful tears to his dwarf’s eye. Bilbo had denied him this moment.

It couldn’t matter.

It was more important that they succeed. Then Thorin could have lots of tender moments of recollection in his home.

They stripped out of everything that might make an unwanted noise -- so, almost everything -- and tightened belts and straps on what they planned to carry with them. The leather of his coat was nearly silent, and he emptied out every coin and scrap of metal he carried, save for his ring. The scarf, a pair of gloves, his pack, the key, everything that could be spared was set in a neat pile outside the door. Beside it, Frey was making her own.  She had gloves laced up her arms, and new clothing that was less worn than what she had been dressed in for months. She kept the bands of leather and rope they planned to use to move the arrows, as well as the torches.

Thorin had talked about the interior of Erebor giving off a natural light, but Bilbo doubted that was real.

They could not delay much longer. There was only one last thing to do. “We must close the door again. Not all of it, but mostly. I don’t want fresh air to wake up Smaug. We should brace it, in case the dwarves thought it might need to not only appear by magic but close on its own if it’s left untended. I don’t plan to get stuck inside this place.” He gestured as he spoke and she processed, then agreed, helping him to push and shove the door toward its frame.

When it was nearly there, she stopped, wedged her hammer on the frame to block it, and they pushed the rest of the way. It wasn’t as if the weapon would do her any good against a dragon. Sting sat with the rest of his things out in the night air.

“Good luck to us, Frey.” He said, clapping her on the back, and focusing on letting his eyes adjust to the dim light he was starting to see. The air was stale and faintly fetid; a lingering hint of death wrapped into every wisp of it. This was Thorin’s home. It had been taken from him, and Bilbo had long ago decided to help him take it back if he could. The risk was large, but if it protected his dwarf, and protected the men of the lake, it would be worth the way his bones quivered in apprehension.

Dull as it was, there was light, pale and greenish, unnatural to his eye, but it was enough for him to walk without fear of tripping.

Beside him, he barely heard her mumble, “ _Wearesoooooogoingtobebarbecue_.”  

By her tone, he thought he agreed with the sentiment.

Heart in his throat, Bilbo led the way into the depths of the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you have to ask, yellow fennel and rue are associated with birth control. ***eyebrows***  
>  Also. Yes, I'm still cackling over here. Tis just what I do. I'm evil. But! If you follow me on Tumblr, you've seen that I've been a writing fiend this week. I bet you can guess what I was writing now. See why I wanted to be sure I had it all ready? So you guys don't have to wait too long? See how I love you? Just... ignore the cruelty I show to the characters ok?
> 
> **KHUZDUL**  
>  Ingadan : Near son  
> lutunên diblal mâ d’ugrad huhûdf : she easily forgave us for more terrible things  
> Rakhâs Igrêb! : Orcs attacking  
> Ignigî : Go  
> Iklifimun mushug lelkhar ugjaj : Damned insane fool follower  
> Durinultarg : Durin's beard
> 
> **SINDARIN**  
>  Estelion allen : I believe in you


	24. Promises Made and Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they rob a dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, In advance. I'm sorry, but I couldn't keep this as one chapter. And you're welcome, because Part Two will be posted on Sunday. If you so desire, you can wait until then to read them both.  
> Only a wee bit of Khuz this time, but its hover and at the end, like always.

They were not travelling fast enough. Everyone thought so. They all knew that each hour it took them to hike their way up from the mooring of Bard’s boat, was another hour of opportunity for their missing companions to reach the secret entrance, go inside, wake up the dragon and get et. That wasn’t something they wanted to see happen. Or find out about later.

It was a possibility they also weren’t inclined to mention aloud where Thorin might hear.

Lest they cause him a stroke.

If they had travelled with astronomical charts and a dwarf who could read such things, they would have known precisely when Durin’s day would fall. As it was, they could only say that it was nearing the end of autumn, and that the moon was nearly gone, and they were fairly sure that this was the right moon to be counting down towards.

The mountain loomed large before them, and they made camp as late as they could each night. Bard grumbled at them for thinking he could see as well as the rest, but never asked to stop early.

Dwalin had to respect that.

The man was an unexpected addition, but, taking Freya at her word meant he’d be of some help. He wasn’t going to fit easy in the passage though. Tauriel too. They either didn’t know or didn’t care about that, and helped as they could in the chilly campsites at night.

Dwalin spent the days at Thorin’s side, falling easily into the post he’d held for a century to replace the ensorceled hobbit they were pursing. Ori forgave him for it, more than forgave him; Ori insisted. Any of them could see that Thorin’s kingly demeanor was a defensive lie. It was gold leaf that only seemed solid at a glance.

It would have been bad enough to send Bilbo into the mountain with them nearby to help if somewhat went wrong. Thorin would have been a mess -- no, that wasn’t the way that his king coped with worry. His king would have been a curmudgeon. He would have been stoic and silent and angry, and panicking inside. Despite what Thorin thought, he was easy to read, particularly for those that had seen him through so many previous tragedies.

If Mahal had any care for his children, Dwalin wouldn’t have to see Thorin through another.

They just had to reach the entrance in time to enact a plan that had some chance of success, rather than whatever cockamamie nonsense Frey had thought up and talked Bilbo into going along with. They had three gifted archers with them, and enough fancy weapons that surely one of them would be able to hit the beast. Thorin, technically an archer, wasn’t any good, and wasn’t likely to be looking after much beyond Bilbo. No matter how hard he clung to his impersonation of a detached king, he was still going to be fussing at that hobbit. If there wasn’t a formal declaration within a day of chasing the hobbit down, Dwalin would break tradition and start asking public questions til Thorin had no choice but to say something.

If they were already inside when they got there… well, Dwalin wasn’t going to borrow trouble.

In the evenings, when they were forced to stop, more often than not, Fíli volunteered for watch. Penitence for what he’d done or just because he wasn’t sleeping well, Dwalin wasn’t sure, but the lad sat watch four nights in a row. Ori sat with him sometimes, having known both princes since they were dwarflings. Since the princes still weren’t speaking to each other, Ori was playing stand in, just on the chance that Fíli decided he wanted to talk about what had possessed him to act like a dolt.  

Dwalin knew that.

So, it shouldn’t have been a shock when Ori interrupted Dwalin’s nightly muttering about the idiocy the Durin’s were cursed with.

“He’s not stupid.”

“He’s a Durin.”

“I’ll have to remind you that you are also a Durin, Dwalin. But that isn’t what I meant.”

“What then? He had ta know she’d go an’ notice him trying to drug her.”

Ori smushed his lips and lifted his brows, staring at the ground.

“Yes.”

“Knew she’d be madder than an elf in mud.” Dwalin prodded, sensing that there was something hovering in those terse answers.

“Yes.”

“Like I said… stupid.” Ori’s face did a charming little squish thing when he was puzzling something out that he didn’t want to say. “What’d he tell you?”

“Nothing. Not a word.” Ori admitted, “But do you recall? In the Trollshaws, we discussed-- we all discussed, many times that the only options to get her to stop following the company were to either kill her, or convince her to stop trying since we couldn’t seem to be rid of her by telling her not to. Though I suppose we could have tied her to a tree or something like that, except...no... she would have just gnawed her way out of that I think. We were never really going to carry through on the first. I watched you; you would have told Thorin to bugger off.

“And as for the latter, threats and thefts weren’t nearly going to do it. She was too... Fili isn’t stupid. She has always been determined to go to Erebor. From the start. We knew that. We’ve never had a way to make her angry enough that she’d stop wanting to come. That’d be the only way. To manage that, it would have to be something that... mattered.”

Ori left the rest of it hang in the air. Dwalin could see the prince across the camp, and caught him, not for the first time, with a resigned smile trying to overtake his stoic glare as he looked at the mountain.

“You think that the lad was…?”

Ori nodded. “Didn’t work out.”

Dwalin didn’t have an answer for that, and he stayed quiet long enough for Ori to fall asleep beside him. Fíli sat on watch at the opposite end of the encampment, and several times before they woke the next pair, Dwalin spotted the same look, and saw Fíli shake his head as he played with a knife. Dwalin didn’t sleep well that night, mulling over the comments that Balin and Bofur had made after appearing out of the forest, picking over the way Fíli had sent Bilbo after her, and considering what he could have thought he was going to achieve. Or what he was giving up.

If they weren’t rushing across a dragon’s blight and up a slope to try and find a hidden staircase -- without the map to lead them there, or the key to let them in if they found it -- he would have whapped Thorin in the head and made him talk to his heir til he got a straight answer. Since they were, he spent the morning brooding louder than Thorin.

The next day, late afternoon, they found the stairs. With the bows and everything else they had to haul up with them, it would be well into the night before they reached the top. It wasn’t an encouraging sign.

 

* * *

 

First thing she was going to do when she got back to the real world: write a masterpost on how fucking huge Erebor was. It was a damn metropolis. It would be a day trip to visit someone on the other side. Live at the top? You would have to stop and sleep before you reached the bottom. Live at the bottom and work higher up? Calves. Of. Steel.

Unless there were slides and rappelling lines and giant stripper poles hiding about that she hadn’t seen to assist on the downward journey and some kind of wacky elevator system powered by benevolent giants for the other direction, she had to figure that Erebor was divided into subcultures based on the fact that no one would ever want to do that much god-forsaken walking. Not even Legolas or Aragorn and they were power walking masters.

Just.

Fuck the Lonely Mountain.

Fuck it.

PJ must have pulled a smash cut on that scene. No fucking way did anyone just bop back and forth across the place.

Second was going to be writing a review on every single site on the entire internet that sold her beloved boots. In multiple languages. That they were still in one piece was already impressive, but that she hadn’t had bloody blisters wrapped around her feet for months was even better. Even when her socks had dissolved into cutting strings, her boots persevered.

So, it only seemed fair that she write up a nice set of comments on their resilience. Amazon definitely. Maybe a few of the other shoe stores. Maybe a letter directly to the people at Tacoma. It helped that she never took them off except to bathe, so maybe the inside was worse than she knew, but at present, ten out of ten, five stars. Strongly recommend. Excellent boots.

Yep.

Frey was trying not to think about what she was doing.

Thus: boot reviews.

Bilbo was on the other end of the kluged contraption full of arrows, and both of them were tense enough to shatter. She kicked a rock at one point and they nearly died of fright as it clacked against stairs and floor while it fell. It didn’t matter that they were outside the armory, almost an hour from the treasury, at the time, and that she knew Smaug was asleep there. When trying to avoid notice by a snacky, evil dragon, everything was a cause to panic.

By her count they were on miracle number five in the last twenty four hours, and she had lost track of how many miraculous things had happened since rolling into Arda like an unexploded grenade. She was an imminent calamity and knew it. Still, things were going tolerably well for the time being.

They had found the door.

They hadn’t been late.

They had found the armory.

The arrows were usable.

Therefore, the crushing malevolent fist of karma had to be waiting just out of sight. Possibly over their heads as a piano about to plummet. Who knew. It didn’t matter, somewhere in the shadows of Erebor it was waiting to screw her over, like every other time things had started to go right for her.

She just wanted to get back across the treasury, get the last set of arrows up the tunnel, and then get the hell and gone away from Smaug’s favorite napping spot. Thror deserved to be kicked in the balls for putting the entrance to the secret passage in the damn treasury. Or maybe it was older than Thror? Frey had never been good at keeping track of dwarven lineages, and since PJ had thrown the lot of it out the damn window…

Maybe it was just Smaug’s makeshift treasury/bedroom? Maybe the actual treasury was somewhere else?

It didn’t matter.

The light had lost the cold gleam that much of the mountain held. The general ambiance inside Erebor was near to teal. Some kind of bioluminescence that was immune to dragons. Or maybe it was dwarven magic. Or some kind of nifty Ardan mineral. Who knew anymore. They had light without torches, and that was fantastic since the alternative involved falling off the ridiculous, railless bridges and going splat.

Once they passed through the last of the small hallways, and into the region covered in mounds and heaps and towers of gold, the light changed. It wasn’t warm, but it did glint in something closer to daylight than to an evil alien abduction light. Well, considering where she was, the proper reference point was probably more of an evil nazgul minas morgul beacon light which was weird since Erebor wasn’t meant to feel sinister.

But, anyway.

They were almost there. Frey was reaching a level of terror induced adhd that made it hard to keep her head on her shoulders, let alone keep pace with Bilbo ahead of her.

This was the last of them. The three arrows left behind in the armory were crooked. They had considered it, but voted them down because the sling was full.

The particularly shiny shirt she had located in the armory on their first trip was travelling with them, hidden under Bilbo’s clothes where it was supposed to be. It wouldn’t have fit her-- yes, she checked first, even strapped down in Nori’s crappy bra it wasn’t happening -- so she had shoved it at Bilbo.  He had been confused, and a bit outraged when she started shucking him out of his clothes, but allowed it after she said ‘or death’ a few dozen times.

No reason to wait around for things like that.

Thorin would just have to find a different shiny object to sneaky marry his hobbit boyfriend. Or, crazy suggestion, he could use words, like normal people.

Gratefulness started to rise as she spotted the last bridge they had to cross.

They could do this. Neither of their sets of trembling legs had collapsed beneath them. Neither had shaken too hard from exertion, hunger, thirst, or fear. They’d not gotten lost. They’d not fallen off the edge. They’d not woken up Smaug. They were going to succeed.

Miracle number six.

Frey stumbled and bashed her knee into one of the arrow points, slicing open both her trouser-leg and her leg-leg.

Bilbo had stopped abruptly, eyes locked on something in the treasure hoard that wrapped around them. Surrounded by gold meant that Smaug was nearby, which meant that this was the worst possible place for them to freeze, or to get into an argument. She drilled holes in the back of his head with her glare, and when he turned to look, she pointed to the now visible entrance to the secret passage.

He pointed to the Arkenstone.

Her mouth dropped open and her grip on the sling loosened. It wasn’t more than fifty feet into the treasure. They would have to leave the walkway, but it was right. fucking. there.

Available.

Visible.

Smaug was still asleep under the hoard, and maybe, just maybe, they could retrieve it and vanish without waking him. The problem in canon was always that Bilbo didn’t know where to look, didn’t know what it looked like, and there was sort of a metric fuckton of treasure to sort through. Now, it wouldn’t take ages to find it. Just pop over and snag it like a mobile order at a starbucks. They could actually do it.

She beamed.

Miracle number seven.

This had to be the best day she’d had since arriving.

Bilbo held up a single finger, pointing from the arrows to the passage. Held up a second, and pointed to the stone. Held up a third, and pointed back to the exit.

A marvelous plan.

They traversed the bridge with new energy, slipping up the passage by fifty steps or so to deposit the arrows, one at a time, as quietly as they could, into the pile from previous trips.

“I _assume_ that is the Arkenstone. What _elsecould_ it be? A _largeglowingstone_ he _saidtherewasnothingelselike_ it. _Cantimaginetheres_ two _ofthose_ in there. Freya is that the Arkenstone?” Bilbo whispered excitedly.

She nodded.

Both of them were giddy. How could they be otherwise when they were about to pull off every one of the their goals? Unexpected, unlooked for, unlikely, yet they were going to succeed. She wanted to do a dance, but, Bilbo was already bouncing between his feet. She would have to be the voice of reason.

Frey flicked him. “Sure, yes fine, we’ll go get your boyfriend a present and try to avoid disaster, but sweet sex-starved satan please, shush.”

If it hadn’t been right there, if it hadn’t been so easy to reach, she would have dragged his hobbit ass back up the tunnel, and insisted they deal with sparkly royal keepsakes after dealing with murderous fiery scourges. As it was, anything that might keep Thorin from charging into the mountain like a doofus seemed like a good thing.

It wouldn’t go well for them if he did.

When they exited the passage for a fourth time, the air was dense with the knowledge of what they were about to attempt. They stood on the last step above the gold, staring across the room to the mound that had their quarry poised at the top of it. It was still there. She hadn’t imagined it. They could do this.

They had stayed out of the gold on their trips, trying not to make noise, and trying not to do anything that might alert Smaug to their presence. So, both of them slid a bit as they took their first untrained steps into an ocean of wealth. Step by step they edged their way across, climbing the hills and furrows of the gold like it was dunes of sand, helping each other to keep their balance. The stone had been barely fifty feet away when they first saw it, but the distance to travel was treble that from the staircase.

Several times the gold beneath them slid away and they would lose the progress they had made. It was slow going, and each time a coin shifted and jingled, she could feel adrenaline spike in her chest.  

It was possible, of course, that this was all a mistake.

She knew that.

Thorin in possession of the Arkenstone was not necessarily any better than Thorin desperate to find the Arkenstone. It would prevent any unfortunate events on ramparts though. If the thing turned out to be independently evil like half the fandom seemed to think, she could take one for the team and toss it off a cliff, or into a mine shaft or straight up steal it. Maybe take it and the ring and head south. She was decently certain that would end with her dueling Thorin, and that event had an unavoidable conclusion unless Dwalin tackled the king. Still. Whatever worked. Preventing the ramparts meant preventing Bilbo separating from them and that increased the likelihood of live Durins standing overtop of dead enemies because like hell did she believe Azog wasn’t going to roll up with an army in a few weeks.

So she was onboard with the fetch the Arkenstone plan.

Bilbo climbed up the last of the hills of gold and clasped the stone. It vanished into his coat.

She cast a wary eye around the enormous room one more time, trying to recall where in hell the dragon would be if she was remembering the movie clearly, but instead, her head, of its own volition, began to tilt further and further to the left.  Her eyes were locked on a decoration on one of the columns. Not because it was particularly interesting; it wasn’t. She stared because it was distinctly a base decoration, in the middle of a room that had, when they first arrived, been distinctly a mound.

Her head tilted a bit farther.

It had been higher in the center than at the sides.                                                                

She sighed.

Now it was bowled.

Fuck.

So much for eight miracles in a row.

“My myyyyyyy. _Thievesafter_ all.”

Smaug’s voice was sinuous and toxic, and those few words shivered down her spine, trying to force her eyes closed. The instinct to cower and beg was overwhelming. Bilbo coasted down the hill behind her, and she felt the gold cascading by as he dislodged it. She spun her head from place to place, trying to find where the worm was hiding, and sinking her grip into the anger that could keep her from hysteria.

This was the exact thing she had been trying to avoid. Dragons had to be out-riddled, and she was going to be utter crap at it. Clever wordplay was barely her thing in languages she spoke. Bilbo’s impressive reputation for it had never been enough to outwit the beast in canon.

If there was any mercy in the world, Bilbo would do as she had told him to, pop on the ring, and run like fuck so that the dwarves could at least have a chance at slaying him.

Smaug appeared from the darkness above, leading down with an amused twist to his mouth as chunks of stone columns tore away beneath his claws.

“Youuuuuu are not dwarves. What aaaaare youuuuu?”

Bilbo had a hand clutching at her coat, and Frey had, without thinking about it, snagged a handful of his. Like that would do anything to prevent them getting toasted.

Any port in a storm.

His head bobbed as he drew closer, and the glow of his chest glowed bright with each breath he took. Smaug sniffed at the air.

“I _haveneversmelled_ your _kindbefore_.”

They needed to be running. Scampering. Bugging the fuck out of there.They needed to be breaking cross country records. Olympic track and field records, even. Hard to do when there was no direction for them to run that wouldn’t result in flambé. Harder still when they couldn’t move at speed on the unstable treasure.

“We… we _cameonlytogazeupon_ your _magnificenceoh_ Smaug.”

Bilbo Baggins, bullshit extraordinaire.

Thank god for his instinct to talk his way out of situations. He could be in charge of stalling. That might give them a chance to solve this. But this changed things. Lots of things. All the things. The plan was to not wake up the murder happy dragon. Now the dragon was definitely awake, and that just --

Nope. Sod it. They were fucked.

They needed a new plan, and she didn’t have time for six rounds of charades to figure one out.

“Isss that sooo? Do you _thinktodecieeeeeve_ me? Do you think I _failedtowatch_ you?”

“No. No no. _Onlyinvestigating_. _Admiring_. _Notstealing_.” Bilbo’s voice cracked.

“And whooo _sentsuchmeagerthievesinto_ my kingdom?’

“We _camealone_ oh _wisestofcreatures_. _Simplyto_ see. To... _ahhhadmire_ you.”

“You _thinkthesepettylieswillpersuade_ me? You _thoughtyourclevercomplimentswouldtrick_ me?” Smaug twisted up, angry, looping around a beam, and coiled back down, pressing his snout toward them with a malicious coo. Frey yanked Bilbo back by a step. “I _expectedthat_ dwarvish _usurper_ not you.”

She recognized that word. This - _This -_ was the inevitable side effect of getting Bagginshield in bed too soon. Galadriel had been right, she had screwed things by prompting them to screw.

She hadn’t made him scrub long enough. She should have burned his coat.  Bought him new clothes. Banned sex in Laketown. Something.

He must have still smelled like dwarf.

Or she did.

“I _never_ saw one of you _before._ " Smaug said as he shifted his gaze from the hobbit to her. “What arrrrre you?”

That was nice of him.

It was almost like Smaug had known she wouldn’t understand if he spoke as he had to Bilbo. She understood him well enough for her terror to rachet higher. Which left her mouth to say whatever it pleased. Westron fell out, repeating what Fíli had said to her so many times.  

“Uh…. A... idiot.”

Wasn’t a lie.

Smaug inclined his head and his eyes glimmered in foul amusement. Dragon laughter was a terrible thing. She would have peed herself if she’d had anything to drink since entering the mountain. Paralyzed, shaking, she didn’t react as Smaug cackled, pulling himself up once more. The hole in his chest was obvious, and her mind turned to white noise at how close they’d gotten to victory.

Bilbo was not so affected.

He tightened his grip on her before he began to flee. Frey was dragged a few steps before her mind reengaged and her legs kicked into gear.

Ran was too generous a word.

They stumbled and sank and tripped as they rushed toward a low span with thick columns. Smaug noticed, the laughter cut off, and a tremendous rushing blast chased them. Bilbo hauled her behind a column as the dragon’s arrival flung coins past them.

Hiding, she looked to the hobbit and breathed, “Ring.”

Bilbo shook his head.

“You go.” Petulant and contrary, he dug into his coat for a moment and extended the ring. As if she would take it and flee, leaving him to escape on his own. The gold around them stilled and Smaug was silent. That was worse than laughter or flame. It hung in an unknown haze and tightened her chest. A buzzing undulated in her ears, rising to mask everything else.

They wouldn’t both make it out of this.

Maybe neither would.

But if it could only be one? Wouldn’t it be better that she try to escape? She knew what was coming. She could be of more help. She could ensure that Smaug fell. She knew where the gap in his armor was. She could find the dwarves and help. She could keep them safe.

She could have what she wanted.

But she had to get away.

The ring could do that for her.

She could vanish, she could run, and Bilbo would buy her the time that she needed.

His life was a small price to pay.

Her hand was reaching when Bilbo’s closed. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, Bilbo launched himself around the column, pulling her by the wrist, trying to reach a different shelter. Smaug’s claw ripped the column apart a breath later.

Frey cracked her head against stone as she was removed to safety, and her mind cleared.

Fucking ring.

Fucking Sauron.

Fucking fuck.

By the sound of it, Bilbo had talked to Smaug and gotten him angry enough to attack. She hadn’t heard a word of it. That was a very bad sign. Smaug was chatty. She had no idea how long she stood there in the ring’s thrall.

“I _knewthisdaywould_ come. When a dwarf’s _petwould_ think to _outwit_ me. I _waswarned_ of your _coming_.”

Smaug prowled toward their new hiding place.

“ _Warnedhow_?”

“ _There_ are _manythings_ in _thisworld_ you do not know, _littleburglar_.”

Certain of nothing but that things were going poorly, Frey reoriented herself. The stairs leading to the passage were on the other side of the dragon. There were several openings leading into small rooms and hallways behind them. That wasn’t helpful. Further into the mountain wasn't going to cut it.

There were echoes in her head of the ring’s whispers, and seriously, fuck that thing. This wasn’t the time to be seduced by offers of power and long life.

“And there are _manywhich_ you do not worm!” Bilbo shouted from cover, “The dwarves of Erebor _willendyouroccupation_ of _theirhome_!”

“They _sentthepair_ of you to _stealfrom_ me? _Tobringthemthose_ arrows? You think I _shallfall_ to them? _Foooolish_ dwarven _whores_. They _sent_ you to your death. Where do _yourmasterscower_? _Hidingamidstthetubtrading_ Lakemen?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and she knew he must have said something to tip their hand, and implicate the men of the lake. Probably barrels. Dumbass. Apparently canon tried to reassert itself if she had the audacity to blink.

“No,” She yelled, “They are in Dale!”

“Dale _fellto_ my _firelongagolittleflea_.”

“It is _rebuilt_!” Bilbo added, a grateful flash transforming his fear. “You _havebeeninside_ for too _longworm_ ! _Anarmyawaits_ you there. We are _merelyscouts_. _Senttofind_ your _faultsandexploitthem_. And we have _foundmany_!” He seemed to be lying. Lying was good. Lying to dragons was about as good a plan as she could come up with, trapped behind a scrap of wall and unable to call for reinforcements.

“Not _justpoorthieves_ but _poorliarssssaswell_.”

She snuck under the bridge to the far side, and gestured for Bilbo to join her. Smaug was above and beyond the bridge, sniffing and searching for them.

“ _Nothingofthekind_! What _causewould_ I _havetolie_ when I _knowyourfate!_  You _fatslug_!” Bilbo taunted. Where the hobbit had found the courage, she didn’t know, but Smaug was now furious.

From their newest position she could see a valley in the gold leading to a staircase that would bring them to safety. It was even partly covered. She made Bilbo look at it, physically turning his head when pointing didn’t get through to him. A tremor rumbled through the gold and Frey saw a colossal pillar pitch sideways. Smaug had knocked it from its base, and as it plunged downward, the dragon crossed over the top of the bridge, turned, and saw them.

“Ring.” She repeated, half pleading, desperate that Bilbo vanish and run and bring the dwarves.

Neither had a chance for more. The pillar hit the gold and set off landslides. She lost her footing and both slid closer to their demise.

The light in Smaug’s eye was gleeful at seeing them, and the initial curiosity had been replaced with butchery.

“ _Lieswill_ not save you. _Norsavethe_ Durin _spawn_. _I killedthem_ and _atetheirkin._ I am _theonly_ king _underthemountain._ Oakenshield _willneverreignhere._ ”

“Thorin will _kill_ you _himself_!”

“You think _vengeancewillmake_ your _demisesweeter_?”

“ _Aslongas_ you die.”

“E _venif_ you _coulddestroy_ me what you have _stolenwillinfect_ Oakenshield’s _mindanddrivehimtoruin_.”

“He _wouldneverfalter_!”

“You _think_ sooooooo? She _knowsbetter_ , do you not?”

Frey looked to Bilbo’s obstinate glower for surety when Smaug turned to her.

He looked back with a desperate question in his eyes, but she had no idea what had been said. No idea how to assure the panic in the hobbit’s eyes. So she took her best guess.

“Thorin is good. All good.” That was definitely a lie. All the same, Bilbo tightened his jaw and looked back with new conviction.

“No. Thorin Oakenshield willneverfall.”

“ _Loyalty_. _Soverydull_. _Sothieves......._.How doyou _prefertodieeeee_?”

Smaug’s tail crashed toward them as he spun. Frey flung herself aside, losing her grip on the hobbit, knocked further by the waterfalling of the gold, and stopped her somersaulting descent in time to see Bilbo escaping the opposite direction.

Good.

Very good.

Progress.

Two targets.

Much better than one.

“ _Did_ you think you _coulddefeat_ me with the black arrows you _stole_? _Did_ you think I _would_ not _find_ you? _Did_ you _believethestonewas_ there _bychance_ ? _Did_ you think you _wouldleave_ this _mountainalive_?” She could hear the rapturous anger and victorious lilt in the dragon’s words; she knew what was coming.

Bilbo flung himself behind a statue as Smaug turned back to them with a blast of fire.

Heat and the sharp pain of burns was enough to elicit a raw shriek from behind Frey’s clenched teeth.  

“Shoulda had sex with that dumb lunk before I left Laketown.” She muttered, curled into a ball on the far side of a hill of coins, while she felt her skin singe.

It cut off and she tried to find her bearings. Anywhere but where she currently was would be an improvement, but outside was ideal. Except, naturally, she’d had the bad luck to run away from death-by-tail in the opposite direction of the exit. Bilbo was headed straight toward it.

Which was better than nothing.

And Frey was done with cowering.  

She flung herself up, stumbling over treasure and ducked behind the beam of a long broken bridge. It wasn’t actually going to give her any coverage if Smaug came looking, but she'd take the momentary reprieve.

“Okay Mahal, Yavanna, Galadriel, PJ, whoever the dizzy fuck is in charge around here, you better be watching out for me or I’m gonna be an appetizer in a minute,” she hissed as she peered around the stone, vaguely aware there was another hole through her new clothes. A shame that. She liked them.

Smaug was searching for Bilbo, weaving his neck back and forth, watching the pathway to the passage. Of course he knew about the secret tunnel. Naturally. Why wouldn’t he? It was in his damn bedroom. Again with the horrible plan, Thror.

But Bilbo had to get to it. Then, she had to get to it.  

To hell with martyrdom.

She wanted to get to taunt the dwarves. Couldn’t do that if she was dead.

She wanted Smaug to be all corpsified. Couldn’t do that without the dwarves.

To get the dwarves, someone had to get to the tunnel.

Right.

Time for loud noises, big distractions, lots of running.

And time for the damn hobbit to put two and two together, jam the bedamned ring on his god bedamned finger, and god-be-fucking-damned run for it.

If he didn’t, they were humped. So was Laketown. So was everyone everywhere.

She glanced from behind her shield.

Bilbo was caught behind yet another column. His entire protective technique was to hide places rather than put to use the device in his pocket that could save his life. A device that would let her turn the dragon into a kitten. A device that could solve all her problems.

Her fingers twitched and she almost moved, almost sprinted to reach Bilbo in time to take the ring and try to master it faster than dragon fire could turn her to ash. Which was impossible.

She shoved it aside.

Frey knew she had cocked up enough things in this world. She wasn’t going to let this go wrong too. She had told the dwarves everything she could think of that they had to know. Thorin was aware of the risk of going off his rocker. Bard knew about the gap in the dragon’s scales. She’d told Bilbo that there was another army coming. Tauriel would keep an eye on Kíli. Dwalin would keep an eye on Fíli. Bilbo would talk to Gandalf about the ring. She had dumped enough knowledge of the ring into Galadriel that it ought to help Frodo in case all of this went to pot. She had a truly ridiculous sketched comic buried in her pack outside that was addressed to Elrond that would serve as an absolute last resort.

She was also being seduced by the ring, and couldn’t pretend she wasn’t anymore.

But, despite the present desire to punt him in the crotch, Fíli was going to hear about this one day.

Frey swallowed the fear.

She climbed back to the top of pile, and forced herself to scream, "Hey Sherlock, you enormous CGI asshole, fucking look at me for a second so he can put a ring on it and start with the escaping, will ya?”

English, because it didn’t matter.

The dragon turned, and she heard a strangled shout from Bilbo over the sound of coins moving.

She dashed toward the chosen hallway as soon as she had the dragon’s attention.

“Oooohhhhhhhhh. How very innnntriguing. But you’ll have to do better if you wish to live, little flea.”

She tripped as she heard him.

As she understood him.

As he spoke in English.

That fact slammed against her mind like a blow, her legs forgot to move, and she tumbled the rest of the way down the hill. Landing on her ass, flipped so she could see Smaug coming toward her, there was nothing but white noise in her head.

Good odds that the screaming was coming from her mouth, though.

Nope. No time for that.

Screaming later. Running now.

Smaug’s chest glowed as he drew in a breath. His head turned back to the tunnel entrance, and Frey fled.

She hurtled towards the columned hallway hoping that the narrow paths would slow him. If there was any mercy she could hide, and if there was any luck she could double back without him noticing. If there was a single functioning brain cell in Bilbo’s head, he had vanished and taken off the second Smaug looked away.

Coins tripped her. Heat surrounded her.

Fire blasted her when Smaug pivoted from the hobbit to her.  She flung herself behind the first solid object she reached.

This was absolutely the worst idea she had ever had.

And she’d had some doozies.

 

* * *

 

He felt the rush of air first, and thank the Valar he was already running.

Hidden by the ring, mind blank save for the knowledge that he had to reach the dwarves, Bilbo bolted across the open span, making use of the advantage she had gained him. It was only a few seconds, and it wasn’t enough.

His legs were sore -- beyond sore. His feet stung from running across heated gold, and his mind was paces behind events. It had all turned to madness as that massive tail swung toward him. He thought he had heard -- it didn’t matter. He had to get out of the mountain and find the others. The pounding in his chest and the tinny echo in his ears could not stop him.

Nearly there, climbing the last set of small stairs before he would be on the last stretch of walkway to his last salvation, he slipped. Coins, scattered over every surface, moved beneath his weight. As he slammed into the steps, already hauling himself to his feet to continue, he heard them tumble and ping. He heard the plinking sound they made as they revealed his location. He heard a triumphant inhalation from the dragon.

Bilbo could not stop. He heard Frey screaming, but the only chance at survival, at warning the others and saving Laketown and the forest, was to escape.

The stones in the tunnel were rougher, the darkness more oppressive. Bilbo had no more than a blink and single gasped breath before the dark was painted out in brilliant, bloody reds.

An inferno chased him and he outraced it; still, it licked at his legs and feet and neck. His coat saved him the worst of it, but he knew it was smoldering. Pain was lost under the necessity of the moment, and he kept up his getaway past the point when the blaze had dimmed. Each breath was acrid and the stench of burning hair was overwhelming. He knew he was not thinking, or breathing, or doing anything save flee the horror behind him. If Smaug fell upon Laketown there would be no mercy, and no survivors. How could anyone think to stand against him and prevail?

Ears still ringing from the dragon’s bellow and the roar of flame, Bilbo couldn’t hear much. There was a faded echo of his own footfalls, and he thought he heard voices somewhere beyond that thundering of his heart. They had to be a fancy of his mind’s fright. Aching in his muscles, and flesh screaming in a higher pitch with the torture of the burns he was trying to ignore, Bilbo collapsed on the ground next to the arrows.

He had to pick them up.

Some of them.

Any of them. At least a few.

He had to grab some of them and reach the others. The pealing in his ears abated and he was sure someone was coming.

It had to be a dwarf. No one else was mad enough to be in the mountain.

He was on his knees, one hand settled on the weapons, the other holding him upright when they arrived. His pulse was too fast, and the past too intense for him to react, so he gaped with tears on his cheeks, and a tremble in his body.

There was a lot of hushed shouting, but he didn’t listen to it. Thorin was in front of him, cradling him against a chest he recognized by feel and smell and the way it settled the torrential waves of guilty revulsion that were battering him. Thorin’s hands were gentle, but his grip was urgent.

The pounding of his heart slowed, and, unburying himself from Thorin’s chest, he could hear words if he focused on them.

“The dragon, Bilbo?” Thorin asked in what must have been a repetition.

“Awake. Angry.”

“The arrows?”

“We got them all. We got these -- the others were bent -- these are -- They’re here.”

“Freya?

“She ran the other way. She’s alive.” A roar he felt more than heard made him hesitate, “Not for much longer.”

Bilbo felt the shock and regret in his dwarf in the way his hold turned painful, but knew it was being pushed aside to deal with the task at hand. He had to do the same.

This was more important.

He had made a hash of his plan to keep his friends safe, so he would have to make this work.

He didn’t look to where Fíli was standing.

The day had turned to tragedy already. The dragon was awake, and Frey wouldn’t have done this without his prompting.

“We can still follow the - the original plan, Thorin. I can bring him to you. You -- you have the bows? Kíli? Tauriel? You can -- Bard?” The man was bent nearly in half in the passageway, bearing the grim visage that seemed to be his only expression. Bilbo squirmed. “Why are you--? Never mind. We need to get you all to somewhere you can ambush him. The Gallery. You told me about it. I know how to get there. We have the arrows. There are plenty. And we - we - we can return to the plan. The first plan. But he’s too furious. Send everyone to the hall. I can lead him to you.” He shifted, moving to stand, and gasped an agonized squeal.

Thorin was investigating before Bilbo had finished reacting. His fingers touched Bilbo’s calves, and only a hand clapped over his mouth kept Bilbo from screaming.

“You cannot.” Thorin’s voice was a torture all its own. It was guilt and regret, and the certainty that Bilbo would do as he had said. That Thorin could not stop him.

Stubborn outweighed sense, and Bilbo forced himself to rise, trying not to acknowledge the bolts that shot up his legs with each movement. His heels were singed, and he knew when he took a step that the arches of his feet, the only place even remotely tender on his soles, was blistered. Silently clenching his jaw, he began passing the arrows to the company.  

No one had time to argue. Those that had any skill with ranged weapons, and those that were needed to lead them, had already split into small groups. Kíli and Tauriel were beside Dwalin. Balin, Bofur and Nori carried oversized bows and excess arrows for Bard.

Glóin, Dori, Bombur and Bifur carried the pieces of the last bow. Fíli was bundling arrows into something more easily carried. Ori and Óin had the barest necessary supplies should they succeed, and stood with the rest.

Bilbo led them toward the exit, fighting the need to hobble by rolling his weight to the outer extremes of his feet. With the Dragon incensed, they could not lead him carefully, it would be a dreadful, dangerous flight.

There was no one else that could do it.

He could hide better than them, and he knew that Smaug would be easy to provoke if Bilbo reappeared. Nori or Bombur would have to cope with the initial paralytic fear. He didn’t. His mind was wiped clean of terror by horror and obstinate defiance. His feet could last through the run. After the dragon fell he could stop and see how bad the damage was. As long as he didn’t look, he could pretend it was something he could walk on --

Sprint on --

Evade a dragon and traverse a mountain kingdom on.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Bilbo squared his shoulders and gestured for them to wait. He slipped on the ring, took a few steps into the room and listened, but beneath the dull resonance in his ears, there was nothing.

Another gesture after he revealed himself assured them it was safe, and Thorin clapped a hand on Kíli’s shoulder. His normal youthful glee was somber, and he did not hesitate. The archers ran, with the company behind them, travelling in clusters in case Smaug came upon them. The plan they had established would see at least some of them safely to the front of the mountain. Even if he fell leading the beast, the dragon would make for that point. Bilbo’s lies had been too thin to correct his mistake in mentioning the barrels. Smaug would leave the mountain, no matter what, and the company would be waiting for him.

He needed to delay him, and then deliver him to the others, if at all possible.

He turned to take another moment of comfort from his dwarf before he would have to face the dragon again. It wasn’t a good plan. Not close to it, but there was no choice. Someone had to do it, and Kíli had told them the ring had done nothing to hide him. They could not wait for the enemy to come to them.

He had to do this.

Instead of consolation and a sweet, encouraging kiss waiting, he found Thorin and Fíli facing off in mute competition.

Bilbo took a step and hissed when he felt the wet piercing stab of the burns along his legs. There were blisters there already, a lattice work of them, large and small, that were growing worse. The single step had ripped at least one open, and the liquid seeping from it was searing a path toward his ankle.  

Scampering away from Smaug ought to serve to drive that thought from his mind.

“Go.” He whispered.

“No.” Thorin answered, voice heavy with something beyond the gloom their situation presented.

“You have to. I can hide; you cannot.”

“But you cannot run, Bilbo.” Fíli added.

Neither dwarf had looked away from the other. Bilbo realized belatedly what they were deciding. Thorin caught his nephew’s arm, as if he could shake some sense into him. Fíli’s face didn’t shift.

“You cannot hope to find her.” Thorin said, a rejoinder to an argument Fíli had not needed to speak aloud.

The prince ignored it.

“Bilbo cannot run, and I am faster than you are, uncle.”

“You are not.”

“I’ve studied the maps you drew.”

“I lived here.”

“It has to be me.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“Uncle, I am not asking.”

“Go to your brother, nephew.”

“No. Ihlit-hû du nissîn, uzbadê.” Fíli’s voice turned crisply dismissive. A tone that had some formal meaning to it by the way it squared his shoulders, and struck at Thorin.

Bilbo saw the unpleasant decision pass over Thorin as his heir reminded him he could not risk his life. All three of them jerked at the sound of a burst of flames. No creature on the earth could be as aggravating as Freya when she put her mind to it. Bilbo hadn’t thought she had reached the safety of the narrow hall, let alone survived the attack they had heard. A second roar in the distance, nearly a vociferation, made him smile.

Maybe she wasn’t as dead as he thought she was.

Bilbo turned back to see Thorin’s face pinch. Fíli caught his eye once more, cracking Thorin’s deadened gaze of responsibility and duty. His uncle looked back at him, rather than their leader, wearing a grimace writ with fear, but a rising understanding accompanied it.

Fíli glanced to Bilbo, just a flash, before continuing his wordless plea.

Thorin inclined his head.

“Tell my brother that--”

“Tell him yourself.” The king cut him off, taking the bundle of arrows from Fíli’s hands.

It was barely seconds later that Thorin and Bilbo left. The pain was excruciating, and Bilbo knew he was hobbling now. He had stayed still long enough he had lost the numbness he had earned. He kept his weight to the outside of his feet, off the blisters, trying to keep stride with Thorin. When he stepped on a stone and nearly screamed, Thorin’s patience snapped.

A moment later, he had Bilbo clinging to him like a backpack. Each step as Thorin began to run dragged his legs against Thorin’s coat and sent jolts of pain soaring through him. Even so, face buried in Thorin’s collar and neck, he could not stop the delirious thought that this was a superior way to travel. Nor could he stop the shameful relief that it would not be him that would play bait for Smaug.

The thought below it all, which rang out more painfully than the blisters as they tore, was the whisper that they would see neither of the pair behind them again.

 

* * *

 

Fíli shuddered as he took another slow breath. He walked the handful of steps to the edge of the platform and gaped in the dull light. There was more gold piled in the room than he could comprehend. There was wealth beyond imagining, and it would be the saving grace of his people after so many years of deprivation and suffering.

But Fíli wasn’t looking at it.

His brother and Tauriel, escorted by Dwalin, chased by all the others, were currently speeding across Erebor, trying to reach the Gallery of the Kings, trying to reach a place where they could find sheltered points to hide. Trying to ready weapons and slay a dragon. Bard and the Company was running behind them, keeping to shadows and coves, keeping safe and sneaking across the mountain kingdom.

The tremble in the ground as they had climbed the stairs had seized at his chest.

The glow of distant dragonfire had nearly broken his capacity for thought.

Silence was worse.

If Smaug was still attacking, then Frey was still alive. She was more than aggravating enough to keep a dragon enraged.

There was a hallway, far across the hoard of Thror, where he had seen a glimmer of light burning brighter than the rest when they heard Smaug. He had a responsibility to his brother, to his uncle, to his people. They had to succeed. Bringing down Smaug meant everything. It was their chance for life and security. It was everything.

She had made her choice.

His uncle was right.

He couldn’t hope to help her, and she could not be his priority. Not if he was going to prevail.

Smaug’s bursts of fire had ceased.

He knew what that meant.

She had promised Thorin she would keep Bilbo alive. He was. She had promised she would go to Erebor. She did. She had promised her loyalty. She had never done otherwise.

She had been risking her life for them since  before they bothered to learn her name.

He had pushed her away in the greatest betrayal he could think of, thinking he could break that loyalty, and the oath she had made. He regretted it instantly. He had tried to repair it. She vanished; he never had a chance to make amends. Understanding came too late, and he had not reached the mountain in time.

Smaug would kill her, if he had not already.

Frey would die for Erebor.

She had to be the last.

He had to ensure that the dragon fell.

He needed to see her again.

He could not lead the dragon and survive the day and see the mountain rebuilt if he was preoccupied with her fate. Fear for a single life could not dictate the actions of a king. It had to be pushed aside, buried, ignored until they reached their conclusion. Until the dragon fell, or he did.

He wanted a chance to tell her what he would have said that night.

He could not think of her fate—

The gold gleamed with a new shine as a glow of flame flickered from within the third passageway.

Fíli dropped the pack he carried and ran.

Not dead yet.

He intended that she stay that way.

 

* * *

 

Kíli would have been out paced by Tauriel if her vision had matched his. Since her steps were slightly uncertain, they travelled side by side through the twists and expanses of Erebor. The mountain city was a sprawling, gorgeous thing, and he understood with every sight he passed why his uncle was so dedicated to it.

Now that he had seen it, he could not imagine ever finding peace knowing that it was in the grasp of the enemy. It was a desecration. It was obscene.

He could feel the dragon moving somewhere deeper in the mountain as he travelled. His ears were convinced he had heard something as well, but he couldn’t be sure his mind hadn’t manufactured it to justify the shimmering horror of what he planned to do.

He was going to slay a dragon.

Or Tauriel was.

There was no chance he would allow some Man to claim the glory of that. None. He and Tauriel had discussed it, and dismissed it. By rights it would be his uncle, but his uncle was only passable with a bow. So. If it was to be a dwarf, as it should be, It was left to Kíli.

Each step he jogged was another stone laid into the vow in his mind. A mosaic made of promises, it had been accumulating his entire life. His earliest recollection was of climbing into his adad’s lap and declaring that he would be getting Erebor for Thorin for the next Khebabnurtamrâg. He hadn’t known what Erebor was then, only that his uncle was sad when he talked about not having it.

After that, there were vows to his brother whispered in the small room they shared. Oaths to his people both formal and private. Pledges to his ancestors before their tombs. Commitments to his mother as she helped him to pack.

All of them slipped easily together, framing his life and directing the steps he now took.

It was a life’s purpose brought to head.

Not that such reassurances could temper the fact that he wanted to vomit over the edge of a walkway.

Victory had been prophesied by Frey, and at his side would be a descendant of Girion and an elven archer who surpassed even her own kin. They would succeed.

One of them would.

He hoped.

No, he believed it.

They had been jogging for longer than he realized as he lost himself in his worries. He stopped with the others in a narrow hall, shrouded by darkness, and gulped down air. Fitter than most, Kíli was still a dwarf, and prolonged running was not his strength. Tauriel, naturally, was unfazed. Bard was somewhere in between as he joined them in the first rendezvous point. Following Balin’s bright hair, they hadn’t lost the man and his inadequate vision over a ledge yet.

All to the best, his longbow could fire a black arrow unassisted.

There was a second waypoint they had to reach, similarly protected and hidden. It was no guarantee of survival, but his uncle had aggressively reminded him where they were as they  built alternate plans for any possible scenario. With the small entry and the sharp corners, it was as safe as anything in a mountain that a dragon called home.

According to plan, once the group behind Bard arrived, Kíli, Tauriel and Dwalin slipped out the other side and darted off again.

The cramping in his legs was a low, constant thing, and it was only when they had to scale seemingly endless stairs that his feet faltered to just above walking pace. He did not envy Bilbo. The hobbit, as their runner, had the harder task of following a path the dragon could take as well. It would be slower, longer, and infinitely more dangerous.

Hopefully Fíli would be able to keep his uncle grounded at the tail of the Company.

Hopefully Thorin would be able to keep his brother upright.

Bilbo was hurt, but as least he could vanish into nothing. That would offer some protection.

Tauriel slowed her pace to match his as they moved, but Kíli shook his head.

“Scout?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it as an order.

“Of course.” She didn’t even sound winded.

Dwalin cursed her in khuzdul. It was rude, but Kíli couldn’t help feeling similar.

Hair bound into a long braid that twisted around her head, she pulled ahead of them, checking around corners, and following where Kíli’s stone sense pointed her to go.

One day he wanted to try to do the braid she had so effortlessly managed. In her hair. Not in his. He didn’t have enough hair for that. They had been rushing and jogging and climbing and chasing almost without pause since they had exited Bard’s boat; it was still tidy and contained. His, despite pulling it back, had floofed into his eyes.

Kíli’s somewhat irrational thoughts stuttered when the path trembled at the crash of some distant stonefall. His feet stopped entirely.

Thorin, somewhere, was in a panic over their burglar.

Dwalin insisted that he resume.

There was another quake and an muffled, echoed roar while they waited in the second waypoint.

There was a gust of wind as they reached the Gallery of the Kings, but by then, he was no longer sure what was real, and what was brought on by fear.

Dwalin set down the materials he carried, and began slipping pegs into place. Kíli and Tauriel chose their places to make their stand. The others arrived in a solemn trickle, doing the same, until the last pair were all that remained absent.

Kíli was still blushing at the flattered gasp his hoisting a boulder had evicted from Tauriel when they walked into the room.

Thorin stopped to survey the Company. He shifted his arms, and very carefully, he helped Bilbo to sit on a flat-topped piece of rubble.

The world fell down on Kíli’s head.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Say your thanks to Meph, without whom I would still be clawing at the old version of this chapter. And for holding me to my decision that I write the previous chapter, this one, the next, and have the one after started before I start posting. I can't imagine you'd be pleased if I made you wait three weeks after this one. And you shan't have to.  
> Sunday night I'll post what would have been the other half of this chapter. 
> 
> In the meantime, I'm going to hide. <3
> 
> **KHUZDUL**
> 
> Ihlit-hû du nissîn, uzbadê : Take him to safety my king  
> Khebabnurtamrâg : Forge Day Festival


	25. Miracle Number Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the dragon is displeased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No khuz this time.... I won't delay you. Enjoy part two.

Maps meant little in a labyrinth as complex as Erebor. He had memorized what his uncle and Balin had drawn. They were accurate, but it was not enough. There were passages blocked, areas that they had not thought to draw. There were bridges broken and staircases scattered into rubble spread amongst the endless wealth of the hoard of Thror.

He ducked his head around another corner, found nothing, and continued his jog.

Fíli had always been the quietest in the family. He had always been the best at surreptitious observation. Between the many times he had wanted to know the events of a council despite being sent away, and his persistent curiosity about more mundane matters, Fíli had become an expert at it. Perhaps not as good as Nori, but good enough to do what had to be done.

More importantly, Nori wasn’t a Durin.

That was what it came down to in the end. That was why he and his Uncle had both been ready to take Bilbo’s place. This was a hurdle for the line of Durin to surmount, not any other. Sending one of the rest, sending Nori, sending Bilbo, sending-- It wasn’t right.

What was past was past, but that did not make it right.

Erebor was their home and it had to be them that reclaimed it. He could not ask more of those that followed him than he was willing to give.

If Kíli’s role hadn’t been scripted for the final blow, it would have been all three of them standing on that platform, vying for the right to risk their life and play bait.

He climbed the clawed stairs cautiously, praying there would be another burst of light.

Then he could know where to go to find Smaug.

Then he would know that sh---

No. He needed to find the dragon.

There hadn’t been another fire blast, or another roar since his chest had caved in and his feet had over-ridden good sense.

This had to be about the dragon.

He reached the top of the tower and waited, paying close attention to the shadows and the air’s subtle currents. Stone sense could only keep him on stable ground, it could not direct him to his prey.

It was likely that the dragon would find the others no matter if he played any part in it. It was likely that Fíli would die the way that so many had, lost in an inferno. But if there was any chance of bringing Smaug to his brother, of delivering Smaug to Kíli with warning, so that his brother could make the shot that had failed so long ago, Fíli had to take it. If there was a chance he could protect his brother, there would never be another option Fíli could consider.

His fingers rubbed over the decades old scar on the edge of his thumb.

Rarely did he think about it now, but that scar had served as the talisman of a vow he made standing beside his father’s tomb. He would protect his brother. It was the only mark he carried from the attack that slayed his adad: a little silvery scar, a faint line on the swell of his hand. The vow was so ingrained in him, he didn’t need a reminder.

It was reaffirmed with every beat of his heart.

Kíli came first.

The air stirred, and Fíli turned, watching an array of arches set into a larger wall of homes. A passage had been broken to allow the worm to travel there, and it was as much a guess as any to follow.

He climbed down the stairs, repeating his vow in place of what he should have said to his brother that afternoon as they climbed up another set of stairs. If the day ended the way he expected it would, the last thing between him and Kíli would be vitriol and animosity. They had not taken the time to repair their bond. Now, if he was honest, it was likely too late.

Fíli smiled faintly, thinking for a moment of his brother’s outrage that Fíli was doing something more glorious than him. It crumbled when he considered that Kíli would know his doom, and why Fíli had gone willingly toward it.

The walkway was barren, stripped of the fabled golden railings that had lined every one. Fabled because the wealth of Erebor had been so great that gold was thrown about casually, without care or concern. Used as railings, as gilt in entrances to the mines, anywhere it could be placed. Once the dragon fell, it could be put to use fixing all the malignancy of poverty in his people’s lives. It could also begin, with Bilbo’s help, the slower process of repairing the wounds in his uncle.

He slipped into a cove behind a carved statue when a brush of wind set his pulse racing. Fíli hid in the dark for long moments, certain his heart’s thudding would be audible to any who listened.

The stories of the fall were etched into his bones. They were told in hushed whispers. They were recited in lessons. They were deeper than that though. Fíli had been born drowning in a sea of longing for a place he had never known, but always revered. He had been raised afraid of the dragon, and thought he would ever have the strength to face the beast. That changed the night he followed Thorin.

His uncle’s beard was shorter than anyone else’s, and once Fíli was old enough to know that it was strange, he began asking why at every opportunity. His questioning was dismissed, and Fíli, persistent and barely ten, had watched for months, until he could predict when it would happen next.

Following Thorin was easy. His uncle grew more distraught as he walked deeper into the mountain. Too young to fully grasp, Fíli had all the same memorized the prayer and pain his uncle revealed as he cropped his beard short again in front of the tombs.

Several times after, Fíli repeated his endeavor, and saw the same thing each time. Those memories of pain became the brace on which he hauled himself into confidence and determination. Thorin’s pain and longing for home became the bedrock of Fíli’s life.

His brother had promised to give Erebor back to Thorin. Fíli was going to help that come true.

No further sound or movement came, and Fíli slipped from the nook.

He knew the stories of Smaug. He knew his own resolution to help with the reclamation. Nothing could distract him from that. Not fear for his life, and not the implication of the hammer he had found.

Fíli had been preparing for Erebor since his amad and adad had first told stories to him of ancient kings to quiet his fussing.

Another corner was approached, cleared, and rounded.

Fíli knew what he had to do, no matter how it mangled his chest to think of it.

That knowledge dissolved in the face of success and that pain rose sharper.

No story could have prepared him for the sight of Smaug as he slithered down from the level above. Sinuous, curious and malevolent, he was empowered and in control. Fíli forced himself not to turn away and run. Not quite yet.

It wasn’t enough for Smaug to see him. He had to be sure that Smaug would follow where he led.

Fíli stood, too aware of how he must stand out against the darkness behind him, and watched Smaug draw closer. It was the prowl of a hunting animal. He must have been seen, and watched, long before he had noticed it happening. Quiet for a dwarf was not the same as it was for other creatures.

“Wellllllll. A Durin brat thought to face me after allllll did you? Not cowering with the others? Not hiding in a ssshadow?”

“Never.” It creaked out of his mouth, less defiant than he wanted.

“Come for my gold? Or do you think you can defeat me? The otherssssss were…… confident.” A tongue dragged over teeth as big as he was. “No longer.”

Smaug shot a burst of flame in the air on a laugh. As soon as his eyes were diverted, Fíli flipped his head to confirm he knew where he was. Three sets of halls converging. The stairs above leading high into the mountain. A rough rift in stone leading to a mine.

The long narrow passage that would slow the dragon and keep him alive was visible, but not close. The raised walkway was too high to jump off and expect to survive. The dragon was too large for him to make an escape beneath him.

He looked back as Smaug dropped low, snaking his head to the side with a glow pulsing in his chest. A long inhalation flared that brighter, and Fíli twitched, already thinking of where the nearest cover would be. But Smaug didn’t attack.

“Or did you come to look for herrrrrr? You carrreeee about her? You came to fiiinnnnd her. Tooooo late.” Smaug taunted him with crisp letters and long drawls.

He forced a breath to move calmly through him. It was no revelation. No shock.  

It was not why he had come.

Smaug knew he was a Durin. It might be enough on its own to provoke a furious chase such as he needed, but Fíli could not leave it to chance.

“Come to admire as your thievessss did?”

“Is that the best you have, worm?” This time the words were spit like invectives.

“Not at alllllll. Are you so eaaaaagerrrr to die?”

Fíli lifted his arms and stepped backwards a few paces, challenging, taunting. “Are you grown so lazy in your old age?”

“Bravvvveeeee, aren’t you dwarf-brat.” Smaug was still far enough away Fíli would be able to reach safety when his temper broke.

“There’s nothing here to scare me.”

“Is that sooooo?” The dragon was drawing closer now, each step sending a reverberation through the stone. His claw tore too much from a column and sent it to the ground in rubble.

“They told great stories of you Smaug. I never thought to find you so slow and fat.” A few more steps. “And yet here you are. We wouldn’t have bothered to bring so many warriors had we known.”

Kíli would be proud of him if nothing else. His uncle Frerin as well.

Fíli would get to tell them about it in the Halls.

His chest was thundering, and he struggled to clamp down the spike of adrenaline. It would not help him as he tried to outrun the beast. Exhaustion was guaranteed, but if it struck too soon, the already extensive trek would be impossible.

Glowing brighter with each inhalation, drawing closer, Smaug was certain to be his demise. The best that he could hope was to ensure that the dragon’s approach was loud, and well prepared for.

His mind was calm again, accepting fate, and he was ready to throw another barb.

He glanced down, unable not to when the imminent fire was particularly bright.

Fíli froze.

Smaug’s tail was uncoiling from around a tower as he moved. His body was low, and the light in his chest brightened the stone and errant gold below him. His claws were dragging. His smile was malicious.

Visible beneath Smaug’s body, almost hidden in the fallen stones, standing beside a breach in the wall, was Frey.

Plotting his murder by the looks of it.

His previous plan faltered.

She was too far for him to see her expression, but the movement of her hands, held beside her head was slow, fingers splayed wide, and he could feel the frustration aimed at him.  The light from the dragon’s next inhalation let him catch a better view when she took a halting step closer.  She left the safety of the crevice, and was travelling below the dragon’s tail. There was blood washed down the side of her face, flashing bright red in the movement of the light, abruptly visible against the darker tone of her skin.

Smaug took another step, and Fíli had to look back to him.

“Braver than most aren’t youuuuuu? Braver than she was.”

Fíli doubted that.

Frey had to duck to avoid being bumped by Smaug’s belly.

“Is-- that meant to scare me?”

He could see her expression now; She was absolutely planning to kill him.

Fíli only noticed he was smiling when Smaug’s growl caught his attention. He dropped lower, his snout suddenly too close for Fíli to escape. Frey flung herself flat to the ground and gestured vulgar iglishmêk he didn’t know she’d learned. The overall theme was an insistence that Fíli run, right now, run instantly, and if not, then that he had damn well better run on her signal.

Well, no. He wasn’t going to do that.

Vowing to put his people and the company first had been a lot easier when he thought she was dead.

Now?

She had a stone in her hand, and fury in her eyes. She would slowly flay him if they came out of this alive. He still wasn’t going to abandon her.

“So assssured…... Dwarves,” Smaug spat, rising with a crescendoing bellow, “Oakenshield’s whore carries the usurper’s undoing. That insolent flea would be yours if I were to let you live. But I have wasted long enough without tasting dwarf flesh. You aren’t as interesting assss ssshhhhe issss.”

Frey was on her feet, and pitched one stone, then another, toward the dragon’s tail. They cracked against a distant stone. The sound spun Smaug to look, and Frey bolted.

She still trusted Fíli enough to run toward him.

She cleared the distance while Smaug was turned to look. Since safety was behind him, it would do no good to meet her halfway, and Fíli had to watch with sickened shock as her state was made apparent. Burns and cuts and tears through cloth and flesh made it clear how close it had been.

Freya caught his arm in the same moment he tried to grab hers, and they shot toward the first of the narrow halls.

He felt the heat and the movement in the air, and dragged her into the first niche they reached. In the corner he could shield her; she had already proven she could evade the dragon’s wroth. With every intention to protect her, he did not consider that she would have a similar thought.

She slipped from his hand, ducked around him, and slammed into him as he hit the wall.

There was no time.

Fire already licked at them.

She had her face buried in his neck, one hand braced on the wall, one forcing his head down, splayed in front of him, doing everything she could to shelter him. All he could do was cling to her, and hope his embrace would save her from the flames.

Seconds or hours he stood there, frantic and unsure if he would fail so soon; half deafened by the sound. She was shaking and panting against him. He could feel the blood from her face where it still flowed.

“ _Youremiraclenumbereight_ you _jerk_.” She murmured into his neck, holding there with a kiss just long enough to rip at the guilt in his chest. Flames ebbed, her head lifted.

“Run.”

Hands clasped, they slipped from the alcove, and they did.  

 

* * *

 

The rumbling grew closer each time.

Bard was nearest the largest entrance to the hall, and beside a narrow passage he could use to slip around, closer to the main gate of Erebor. Tauriel would climb to the next level, and, with luck, gain a perspective that allowed them to succeed. If needed, she had already proven she could easily drop from that point to join them on the ground.

Kíli was with Nori behind an approximation of a windlance. Two bows, a brace, a board on the ground, and the hopes of a people riding on it. There was another like it between where he stood and the exit from the mountain. It was for Tauriel or Bard if they needed it.

The plan was good.

Their odds were good.

Instead of standing by his side and helping to operate the weapon, his brother would bring Smaug to them, and Kíli would bring the dragon down.

His brother had never failed him before.

Each time the ground shook, he sent another grateful plea to their maker, and added another facet to his vow. He should have spoken to Fíli before the reached the mountain. He should have known that Fíli would not allow Bilbo to act as the runner when he was injured. He should have known that his brother would not allow their uncle -- their king -- to risk himself in such a way.

He should have apologized, and talked to his brother. He should have made certain that if all their plans fell to naught, he would not meet him in the Halls, disgraced by their last living words.

There had been opportunities, and Kíli had allowed them to slip past, enjoying Tauriel’s company, and not liking to face his suspicions. He had let his brother sit in isolated torment each night, and walk with the same dead gaze that Thorin bore.

He had let that opportunity flit away.

Two long steps brought him to Tauriel, just before she reached for a handhold on the broken wall.  She looked at him, equally curious and vexed; she was more serious than Thorin was. Her small bow and as many arrows as could be readied were slung over her hip. The cool glow of the mountain’s light made her unreal, immortal, wrought from something he neither deserved nor understood.

“Tauriel,” He dragged in enough air to keep himself on course. He had given his last coin to a blacksmith on a possibility. The dragon was certainly coming. “Amralimê.”

Her eyes went round and her mouth tightened, but he saw the quaver beneath it.

“I… I don’t know--”

“Yes you do,” He interrupted. “Yes, you do.”

Arm extended, she froze until a long breath unravelled the spell.

“Yes I do.” It was a sigh or a sob or a secret set free.

Kíli nodded. “I thought you should know.” There was no time for anything more. They both felt the movement of the warm air. Tauriel ascended to her post. Kíli returned to Nori and the bow.

And they waited.

 

* * *

 

Sprinting was all well and good, but this had been going on too long. She wasn’t a marathoner. Neither was Fíli by the tortured wheeze he had going. She was panting, her chest heaving as she tried to get oxygen into her lungs. She slumped against the wall, muscles trembling.

Surely by now the others had reached the Gallery of the Kings. Surely they were in place. Surely they could now switch over to doing Bilbo’s job for him.

Hopefully Fíli knew their path.

She sure as shit didn’t.

This hidden cranny, behind a statue, down a long hallway, and below a block of houses had been a necessary stop once they found it. Unavoidable, because oxygen was a required component in staying not dead. So, apparently, was the hand holding.

That was still happening. After they had fled the first hideaway, with her hair a bit singed and her skin feeling tender, he hadn’t let go. Not when they bolted through hallways, not when they careened around corners, not when she slipped in gravel and hit the ground. He had held on, dragged her along, yanked her up, and pretty well bruised her hand and wrist doing it.

Honestly, she couldn’t say she minded.

Even when it would have been smart for them to separate and divide Smaug’s attention, the little voice of reason had been drowned out by the mindless shrieking in the rest of her skull. She could kill him for being a dumbass later. If Smaug didn’t take care of that.

Speaking of which.

Smaug had learned not to stomp through the halls, but he was large enough and flamey enough he had his own heat wave following him. Fíli’s grip tightened on her hand and they resumed a jog for the front of the mountain. It was the plan after all.

Fíli led them, and she cursed every time they passed into an area where the random magic glowing rocks were dull. She couldn’t see as well as him, and she would trip. Each time his hand tensed, but at this point there were too many reasons motivating it for her to call it sentimental. Maybe she just wanted it to be that.

They crept from the tiny passage, walking as quickly as they could. Fíli had slowed them to this pace when they stepped onto the net of narrow spans. Barely five feet across at times, unrailed, and covered in debris, it would be easy for her to slip over the side. Reducing their speed made their gasping louder as they moved, and it seemed to echo in the large chamber.

Fíli had pointed to a little door on the opposite wall, and was snaking them across the lattice-like paths. It was too small for the dragon to enter. They would be safer there.

For a creature as large as he was, Smaug could be a sneaky motherfucker.

“Wellll. Not as fast as you thought you were, were you little flea?” He dropped onto the wide platform at the center of the lattice, separated from them, but not by enough to provide them any cover. “And you _keptthiswhelp_ of Durin’s _lineforcompany_.”

Fíli’s hand spasmed at the sound of english in a dragon’s mouth, followed seamlessly by westron. She tried to convey in her replying clench that it was fine, she wasn’t secretly evil, she wasn’t working with or for the dragon, and that she would try to explain after the bastard was dead. By the look she saw when she glanced, it hadn’t all gotten through to him. He tried to pull her back toward the smaller hall where the rooms were a maze, but Frey was a few thousand steps past giving a fuck anymore.

Talking to the thing trying to eat her hadn’t crossed her mind while she was trying to get back to the secret passage.

She got her hand out of Fíli’s, stepping to shield him, and ignored the fact that he had let go. No, she didn’t ignore it, she let that panic translate into her demands, “Alright Smaug you egocentric oversized asshat gecko, how the fuck do you speak english?”

“Is that what you call this tongue? It has been many years since I heard it last, and not by that name. You aaaare verrrrryyyyy interesting. You did not stayyyyy and talk beforrreeee.”

“Because you were trying to eat me you cock-goblin.”

“Why run when you’ve beeeennnnn of sssssssuch help?”

“I’ve never helped you.”

Her mind went hazy, blurred, while echoes of stories and movies played in her mind.

“Ohhhh but you have.”

“Nope. I don’t help anyone except for my dwarves.”

“What arrrrrrre you doing working for thieves and dwarvesssssssss as welllllll as the dark Lorrrrd? Hmmmm. Farrrrr more interesting than that eagle rider.” She didn’t recall Bilbo saying that, but she had buggered off into ringlust land for a while, like the useless pile of stupid she was. “The one that smelled like dwarf.”

“Of course he smelled like dwarf, he’s fucking one of them.”

Dragon laughter was a terrible thing.

And her mouth had declared its independence and was acting as a sovereign nation.

Smaug closed the distance the rest of the way, neck stretched across the expanse. Any closer and she’d have been inside his blind spot, pressed against his mouth. Her feet, ever the best advocates of her ongoing survival, began to retreat, no matter how tired she was, pushing her closer to the edge of yet another OSHA deficient bridge, blessedly, one that was double wide.

“Well I think technically the dwarf is fucking him, but who knows? Maybe they like to switch? I’m not going to judge.” Her mouth was going to be demoted to rogue nation at this rate.

The little corner of her mind that wasn’t wrapped up in terror and confusion was fairly sure that saying all that — saying anything — was stupid and useless and going to get her killed. Most of her was too lost to do more than follow her instincts.

Instincts that she had long since accepted were prone to babbling when panicked.

Having a tea time chat with a dragon when Fíli was right next to her was not going to go over well. It was going to have to be explained. The dwarf was closer to the edge than she was. He was also closer to a passageway, and had a chance at making it there. Especially if she kept Smaug’s attention. He could make it.

“Ohhhhh that I could tell without your help. If Oakenshield thought to taunt me with his mate, he’s more the fool than I thought. But it matters not. He will fall to the stone as his grandfather did. He will be destroyed by it. Brought low. Driven maaaad.”

Smaug turned his head as she continued her shaky retreat, looking her over for a moment, “Just as you will fall. But not to the stone, not youuuu. You’ll fall to something farrrrr morreee preccciousssssssss.”

The word reverberated in her head as she collapsed under the onslaught of imagery and sensation. Shards from one of the many broken towers dug into her hands and knees as the world went grey at the edges.

“Too easy. It hasss already begun hasn’t it little flea? You want it. You have tasted it and now there is nothing you would not do to have it back again. It calls to you and you know that one day soon you willlll answer it. Don’t worry flea, it wants you to have it. That I could tell as soon as I smelled you, prowling through my mountain.”

“No.” She forced herself back onto her feet, which immediately resumed their retreat.

“Ohhh, but it doessss.”

“No, I don’t, don’t, don’t want it.” Her voice cracked.

“It has all the power that you crave. I could help you have it. Let you keep it. You could have everything I can see that you want. Just help me find the rest. Tell me where they are. Help me rid my mountain of them. I’ve not had a taste of dwarf in long years.”

“No. Fuck you. Who? Who did you? Which of them? No! They’re fine!” She wasn’t sure what she was asking anymore. Which he’d killed, which he wanted her to kill. Confusion was a physical presence now, wrapping about her and destroying any hope of rational thought. The others had gotten away. Fíli had found her, and the others had run, and they must have gone back to the plan. Smaug had been hunting her. She had been playing mouse. Fíli was with her.

The others were fine.

She wasn’t going to help kill any of them.

Not to save them.

Not even to save herself.

The laughter blew foul air over her and the force of it sent her back another step. A distance Smaug closed immediately. The air rippled, screeching in her ears, and flickering with every desire in her heart. Azog dead, Bolg exterminated, the ring on her finger. The world controlled. Her dwarf alive. An apology. An endless feast. A goddamn bath.

It tugged at her, ensnaring her.

It was oppressive and virulent, and she could taste copper on her tongue. The first blood of an ocean it would cost if she agreed.

“No.” She said with all the will she could muster. It came out a whisper. “No. Dragons lie. Everyone knows that. Even I know that. So you and your boss can get the fuck out of my head.”

Her vision tunnelled down to the dragon’s face, her perception eradicated beyond her own body. The pounding in her head was torrential and still building, a sweeping cacophony. Smaug’s mouth moved back, opened, and if she had known where her feet were, she would have tried to run.

She didn’t, so she raised her chin in a final refusal.

A weight hit her in the side, hauled her some distance while her mind reeled, and then she was falling. The first crack onto cold stone, held by something warm and solid jolted her mind back to life.

Fíli had jumped off the ledge with her. They slid down the slope of a fallen column, Smaug’s frustrated maw gaping open above them.

The stone was uneven, carved and damaged. Fíli kept them on it as long as he could, but they were barely halfway to the bottom before they lost their surety and fell off the side. As they plummeted to the floor below, she felt Fíli roll them so he would hit the ground first.

 

* * *

 

Another roar echoed, and the movement of air around them sent ice down his spine. Thorin forced himself to think of anything but his heir. Bilbo had refused to stay hidden, and now stood at Thorin’s side, a few paces from cover. His face was pale and his breathing was heavy, but he did nothing but offer support.

They were in the gallery. They were nearly as far from the treasury as they could be, and there was a sick susurration in his head at the thought. Whether it was remorse for leaving Fíli behind, or the symphony he had heard the moment he set eyes on the gold, he could not tell. But it was there, underscoring his mind with a note of disquiet and unease.

All around him the company was tucked into the hiding places they had fashioned from the rubble that had been his home. The bargeman, the elf and his nephew were positioned as well as they could be. Each had weapons and arrows. Each had both black arrows and their preferred smaller variety. Each had a merciless grimace on their face as they watched the most likely passage the worm would take to reach them.   

The bows they had created were in place. Kíli was ready. The others were ready.

The dragon would die.

He was certain of that. Just as he was certain that it would not be the dragon alone.

Kíli looked brittle as he stared into the darkness down the hallways. They were guarding all of them, but roars had echoed from the largest several times. Kíli had noticed his brother’s absence the moment Bilbo climbed off Thorin’s back. There had been no time for Thorin to explain, only to gesture that he was aware, and that Fíli would arrive shortly.

It was a lie. Kíli had known that, but followed the plan. Thorin’s eyes slipped shut while he clung to his own bow. His heir was lost, and Thorin would be at fault for allowing it.

The last stretch to run was longer than the rest, straight, without place to take shelter. Even if Fíli succeeded in bringing the dragon to them, he would die in that last attempt, and Thorin would have to see another of his line laid out in death.

“They’ll be fine Thorin.”

“You cannot know that.” He answered Bilbo’s soft voice in a similar tone.

“But I can believe it.” His hobbit echoed what Thorin had said in the cells of the elven king.

Bilbo’s hand settled over Thorin’s chest, anchoring him.

“You would have been hidden, protected by the ring.”

“But I cannot run. I would have been caught in moments.”

The trickle of ice on his back became a rush. He had lost too many to the dragon. He could have lost Bilbo. He would have lost him if Fíli had not insisted and challenged him. Until he had turned to see Fíli’s glare, the thought hadn’t occurred to him to take Bilbo’s place. Now he was going to lose his heir. It would break Kíli. Even as the comfort of Bilbo’s safety rose, guilt crashed over him with the knowledge that he may have traded his heirs for his love.

“Thorin, stop that.” Bilbo gripped his tunic and shook, voice hard, “It will not help. It will not save him. He made his choice.”

A hum rumbled beneath their feet, closer than the last one.

“As did she.”

“No,” Bilbo creaked on the word. “No. I talked her into this.”

“She convinced you.”

“No, Thorin. She didn’t. I found her, and she answered my questions, and I persuaded her to do this.” His hobbit lifted to his toes despite the pain, and gently pressed an apology to his lips. “Thorin, there’s something else.”

He expected a soft phrase or a whispered affection. Bilbo was no warrior, and the fear of what was coming would be overwhelming. Instead, Bilbo tucked his hand into his battered, ancient travelling coat and drew out the Arkenstone to sit in his hand like a gift, casting glimmers of light over them both.

“We found it. I was going to bring it to you, as, as a gift. I don’t know if we’ll have a chance, so it only seemed right to, well, do it now. Here.” Bilbo pushed it into Thorin’s hand, and smiled with wet eyes, as he intoned, “King Under the Mountain.”

The weight of it in his palm was assuring. He had never held it, never touched it. It was his grandfather’s, and a long absent token that had served as a symbol of what had been taken from them. It sang to him, a different melody than the murmurs he thought the gold had plucked in his heart. It was everything that he needed to greet the world as king, handed to him by the only person he wanted at his side.

“The dragon said that it would take you from me.” Thorin tore his eyes up from the jewel he held and saw the anxiety in Bilbo’s face. Eye contact was enough to soften the expression. The tender grin eased an answering one onto Thorin’s face, and when Bilbo spoke again it was no longer threaded with hurt. “But Freya told me you were stronger.”

“Bilbo.” He had no words to explain the welling glimmer in his chest.

“Whatever happens, you are my king Thorin.”

“Hobbits don’t have kings.”

“I do.”

The ground shook again. The dragon was close.

He tucked the stone into his furs, savoring the confidence of keeping it close. Bilbo nodded, and they silently concurred that it was time.

Thorin smashed down everything but the instinct that had been etched into his bones, and prodded Bilbo into hobbling back to the stone wall that was their protection. Tomorrow he would grieve those that were lost. For now, there couldn’t be anything but the plan, and the vengeance he had wanted for a hundred and seventy years.

 

* * *

 

He could see the last hallway.

Beyond the last hallway was his kin.

Was his brother.

His brother had arrows and bows and would bring the dragon down.

Half a dozen times now he had seen the gap in Smaug’s armor, and if he could get his brother the shot, they would finally reclaim Erebor.

The right side of his back and his arm protested his every movement. Nothing was broken -- or, he thought nothing was broken -- and both he and Frey had survived that ridiculous, temerarious escape. Her face was bleeding yet, she was favoring her left leg, and she was tremoring, even as she ran alongside him without fault.

He liked none of that.

She also spoke a dragon’s tongue.

He liked that even less.

But he had seen her fall under Smaug’s spell, tempted by an offer or a magic he had not understood, and he had seen her refuse, standing tall and proud. Seen her stand where she would have been eaten had he not taken his chances on the column that had lain slumped against the bridge.

Now there was one more hall.

They were in another alcove, and it was a mercy that Erebor had been so decorated. Frey was watching the other direction as he tried to find additional places they could hide in the final run. She was watching for Smaug.

Each breath he took wrung pained gasps from his chest. When she had thrown them around a corner to hide the wall hitting his back and shoulder blew the world into stunning white for a moment. Every time they had sheltered in a cleft of stone while fire lashed new hurts over whichever of them had claimed the role as protector, the pain of movement ran counter to the comfort of holding her for another moment.

They were alive, but it was a near thing.

He squeezed her hand, she squeezed back, and they shot out of their cover. Smaug would see them, or hear them, or smell them, and he would follow. He always knew where they were. They were being toyed with at every turn. They had to reach the gallery. They could always provoke him into entering once they reached the others.

Whatever it took.

Before they got there was this last stretch, unprotected, a straight line with more than enough space for the dragon to pass through. It would be impossible to survive if another firestorm swept after them.

Halfway there he saw his uncle hovering at the edge of the entry.

Fíli knew the battle he was fighting. Thorin wanted to come help, but he couldn’t reveal what they were leading Smaug toward. So Thorin’s silhouette was visible, and Fíli used it to redouble his pace at the same moment he felt Smaug chasing them down the hall. She was flagging, and whatever she had survived before he found her weighed at him. It could not stop them. He was half dragging her by the end.

Frey changed the grip of her hand as they took the final steps before crossing the threshold into the room. He knew her.  He should have known what she intended, but couldn’t stop it when she shoved him at Thorin. Fíli tumbled, caught himself on his uncle’s arm, and was tucked immediately out of the way of any attack the dragon could launch. Ribs throbbing at the crash into the wall, and breathing ragged in shock, he was too weak to protest when Thorin forced him into the shadow of a ledge. So, he had to watch as Frey reached the center of the room. She stopped, wheezing and choking, and tried to stand defiant.

She failed in that.

She looked like a sacrifice.

Barely more than a snack.

Thorin forced him to stay in place.

Fíli could see Bilbo ahead of him, hidden and safe on the south side of an improvised wall. Thorin had placed him in the safest location he could. No doubt he wanted to move him further, and no doubt Bilbo had refused.

Fíli couldn’t see the others, but they had to be present and concealed.

Except, Smaug had stopped.

Frey, as she often did, made an idiotic choice.

“ _What_? You _dontwannaeat_ me?”

If he hadn’t done the same gesture earlier, he would have been livid. Taunting a dragon. Some days she was madder than others. But, it worked. Smaug’s head eased into the room with bared teeth and a casual slaughter hinted in the way he shifted his jaw.

No one dared to breathe.

He worried once more the beating of his heart was too loud. It had to be. It was the only sound in the world.

Frey held her ground, locked in place by fear more than courage.

When he was fully inside, there was a long quiet moment as Smaug hissed at Frey in her language. None of the others would have recognized it, but having heard it spoken clearly before, he knew she understood what was being said. He had to watch as she was pushed back by Smaug’s snout.

The dragon was playing with her, tempting her.

Frey fell, and kept retreating, scooting along the ground on hands and rear. Somehow she lost a shoe to the spikes on the dragon’s face, which she frantically retrieved, before she kept scooching with it held against her chest. Beneath the blood, she was growing dull eyed and confused.

The same wrench in his gut that had taken them over the precipice made Fíli take a step. The need to put her somewhere safe while he took her place was guttering. She stopped moving, tilted toward the dragon, and slowly bobbed her head. Thorin had Fili pinned to his chest, arms wrapped too tight, subdued by pain, keeping him from charging.

Smaug hissed something else.

Frey snapped his hold over her and shouted. “No! Fuck! _Sitonastickandtwist_ you _fuckwipe_. No!”

Her denial was loud. She flung herself to her feet, and threw her shoe at Smaug’s face as she retreated. It bounced off, and he snarled. The dragon tensed to strike. Fíli shouted.

The world slowed down as a thousand pieces of a plan advanced all at once.

Arrows ricocheted off the ground, the walls, and Smaug’s scaly hide when his head whipped toward the sound Fíli’s voice. Frey shouted again to regain his attention, and stop him engulfing them in a blaze. From behind a statue, Nori appeared and started to run.

An arrow sprouted in the dragon’s eye and an agonized roar rent the air. Flames burst upwards, ancient tapestries lit. The dragon lurched forward.

Nori crashed into Frey, taking her to the ground, and they both vanished from sight, behind or beneath a dragon’s claw, Fíli couldn’t tell which.

With his mouth open in pain, new arrows pierced the soft tissue there, coming from several sides. Fíli heard the bowstring’s twang as a massive arrow flew toward the raised chest and the gap in armor that was their salvation. He saw it midair, and hope lightened the grasp on his throat. Smaug turned at the last moment, writhing, and the arrow missed.

It clipped over a scale, changed course, and Fíli knew before it happened that their hobbit was not as safe as his uncle had hoped. Bilbo was thrown back, the arrow holding him upright, just for a moment, pinned against the wall. The arms around Fili’s chest slackened. Weight won out, Bilbo fell, and a sound like a declaration of war ripped out of Thorin’s chest.

His uncle charged at the dragon, and Fili’s legs gave out.

Fíli stumbled and crawled toward their burglar and his almost-uncle.

He saw a flash of red to his side; Tauriel dropping from wherever she had been, to run across the gallery, dodging beneath the dragon’s feet. There was a large dark shape as well. It had to be Bard, but Fíli’s only thought was to get to Bilbo. Nori had Frey. He would help their hobbit, if there was any help that would avail him. If there wasn’t, he would be there for his death as his uncle avenged him.

Behind him the room was full of shouts and echoed rage. The smoke was billowing and dense, reeking of an acrid toxicity. Arrows clattered against stone. The floor shook beneath Smaug’s feet, and a wall collapsed as the dragon’s tail blasted through it. They were fighting for their lives, dropping to safety as an insane dragon belched random gluts of fire at them and lashed out without clear targets. Dwalin and Bofur and Glóin shouted insults to keep him from focusing. Ori and Balin pelted his face with stones to harry him.

They would find their chance; he had to trust them in that.

There was no blood Fíli could see, and he rolled Bilbo gently, startled to find that the arrow stayed on the ground. Eyes flickered open, and Bilbo groaned as he sat up, but he was not impaled.

He was not dying.

He was also not happy.

Fíli saw a glint of metal and tugged aside the collar to see a shirt of mithril mail. Bilbo hacked a wet cough, and rose. He had worn no armor before, and shown no knowledge of it, but it had saved his life, and the explanation would keep until after.

Thorin was bellowing threats at the dragon, both of them now at a distance, almost into the next room.

Fíli and Bilbo hobbled along the covered passthrough.

Pincushioned and enraged, with only one good eye, Smaug was blasting fire too often for the archers to take their shot. Fíli finally caught sight of his brother, with Tauriel behind him, wielding one of the bastardized windlances, desperate to take their shot, but incapable of reaching the chink in Smaug’s armor. Kíli tackled Tauriel as she tried to manage one last arrow before the newest attack blasted over them.

The Company was goading Smaug, trying to turn him so the archers had a chance. Bard was on the opposite side of the room from Kíli, and the broken remnants of the second bow were near the gate. Bard had only his longbow, and the arrows dropped at his feet.

Smaug’s tail flailed, dropping a wall into the place where much of their Company had been, sowing chaos and almost certain death.

At Fíli’s side, Bilbo gasped, and hurried into the middle of the room.

“Wait! Stop!” Bilbo’s voice carried, but only enough to distract them all. “Wait! Your fight is with us! Do you think to run away before we’re defeated?”

“You think a pack of canting dwarves can defeat me Luck Wearer?” The dragon’s voice was a thunderclap with a scream of agony woven through it.

“I think there’s an army waiting for you in Dale!”

Smaug spun back to the gate, raising to demolish it in his rage and pain.

The men of the Lake had no hope.

Fíli started to run, as if he could delay their destruction a few minutes longer.

“You think we would let--”

Kíli fired.

And struck.

Fíli couldn’t see it find its mark, but he saw the dragon convulse. He saw him twist and writhe, pouring rivers of flame into the air and demolishing the building over Kíli and Tauriel. Smaug rose up one last time, contorted, and collapsed. His body slammed into the piled stones that had sealed the main gate, blowing them apart, sending dust swirling, and debris cascading.

When Fíli could see again, the gate was open, and the morning light painted golden beams across the dragon’s corpse.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles) is a God amongst Betas, go say thank you. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also. Thank You to every single one of you that comments or subscribes or leaves kudos, or anything. I'm not always effusive in my thanks here, but I smile every time, and I hoard them and reread comments and just could not appreciate them anymore with out losing my mind. 
> 
> I have been looking forward to this set of chapters for a long time, and its strange to have posted them to be honest. But now, I get to turn that giddiness in a new direction. One that will probably induce more yelling from you all.


	26. The World Fell Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is fallout after a victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuz at the bottom.

****Very carefully, very very cautiously, one arm pointing and the other brushing aside yet more blood from her face, Frey extended her leg and poked Smaug in the eye.

Then she scrambled backwards, in case the death thing was a fake and he was about to pop up and snarf them all down like pizza rolls. Never mind that she had watched him die. Never mind that everyone else had stopped attacking and that that should have assured her Smaug was as dead as he could get.

Also, there were arrows stuck all about him.

One of them stuck better than the others.

It didn’t matter.

She needed to check.

The overwhelming consensus of the shrieking in between her ears was that verification of his deadness was extremely important.

More blood oozed down her face, and she regretted for the hundredth time not ducking faster. Smaug’s tail had only barely clipped her as she escaped the room she’d been in, but it still threw her a few yards, and either his spikes, or the shattered architecture she had landed on had gashed open her forehead, just above her eye. She swiped at it again, smearing it into her hair, and wincing at the pain. It matched the blood on her legs. Except that wasn’t hers.

Smaug still hadn’t moved.

So she kicked him.

He still didn’t move, and the final threads holding her in one piece shredded.

With foot and boot and fist and several rocks from the ground, Frey pummeled the dragon as the last of the adrenaline in her body pushed her onward. Not that she went anywhere. She bludgeoned the worm for fucking with her head, and for trying to eat her, and for being more evil than expected, and for not negotiating when she tried, and for speaking english, and for dying before she could ask questions about that bullshit, and for getting within a thousand yards of her dwarves.

They were hers. And yes, she was absolutely going to beat the shit out of the blonde one and yes, they probably thought she was evil because she talked to the son of a whore she was presently and ineffectually flogging, and she did. not. care. She was the only one that got to hurt her dwarves.

Or her hobbit.

Or her newly acquired elf.

They were hers and fuck anyone that tried to hurt them.

Hyperventilating, she turned to check on the idiots she had laid claim to, and froze. Nori was laying on the ground. Óin was bent over top of him, and Dori was utterly unmoving as he watched.

Nori had come to help her and she’d thought he was fine. He had dived into her side and gotten her out of the way of certain death. He had squished into a her a bit, but she had survived the weight. She’d thought that dwarves were tougher and that the bruises up her body were worse than what he would get. She’d thought he was just too scared to move when she’d climbed from beneath him.

He wasn’t moving enough, and Dori wasn’t moving at all, and Óin was moving too much, and there was too much red beneath him and there wasn’t enough air.

She wiped at her face again, clearing the blood as it mixed with tears.

Shapes were walking toward her, hands extended, and she batted them away with more curses, unsure when one of the dwarves had gotten so tall.

There was air outside. She needed air, so she would go outside. It required her to climb over Smaug’s head, and she lost her other boot doing it, but she got out of the mountain. The sound behind her didn’t make sense and she couldn’t be there anymore.

It was words behind her. She thought it was words, but right then, her head couldn’t process westron. Her ears refracting it, breaking it until it was just sounds clattering around her skull without meaning. Outside, the air was cool and dry and it didn’t scratch at her lungs with a reminder of ruination and despair. It wasn’t stale with death, and stickily hot. There were no dragons outside.

Soft sunlight was a caress and her legs started to buckle.

Tripping and cutting her hands on the gravel strewn bridge was enough to make her walk a few steps further. A colossal boulder at the side of the path was the best she could manage. Cold air eased the tender burns on her arms and legs, but made the shock of heat on her face worse. She sobbed, choking on air and spit, cheeks straining as she struggled to make it stop.

Hurts she didn’t know about swelled into a flood, and she let herself drown, dragged under by  exhaustion and agony in a bitter press of sensation. Head buried beneath her arms, pressed into the stony earth, curled on herself, hiding behind a boulder, a migraine rising from the force of weeping and so far past her own limit she had lost her tether, she fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

The world had fallen down again.

Right on top of Kíli’s head. This time it had been more literal.

When the rumble of stones had settled and the shaking of the ground had faded, he realized Tauriel was wrapped over top of him, and surrounding them was most of a building, now in boulder sized pieces. But they were alive, and sheltered in a space even the best dwarven stone sense could not have predicted.

Beyond them the world was still and surreally quiet.

The protective coverage became a short, awkward embrace, and they crawled out from the debris a few moments later.

He could tell, the way archers always do, that he had found his mark. He had known it when Smaug rose up to batter his way through the gate. He had known, and been calm, as he changed the aim of the bow. He had known as the arrow flew.

Kíli had watched it strike, burying deep in the dragon’s chest with a wet sound that had released him from his vows.

The world began to fall, and he had stayed staring, gaping at what he had achieved as the dragon flailed. Tauriel had seen the wall collapsing and removed him from danger in a way that he could not properly fathom. But, he knew he was alive, and that was pleasant.

He also knew before he emerged and saw the corpse that the dragon was dead.

Daylight trickled in and glowed on the dust still hanging in the air. The only sound was of labored breaths and feet in motion. Kíli couldn’t look away from the greyed shell of a body larger than anything he had ever seen. Smaug must have struck the gate and collapsed it before falling back into the hall. His shoulder and wing were half outside, and his head was twisted back. It was a death grimace, open jawed and hollow, but the scale of the creature was staggering where it lay, facing into the mountain.

All his life he had fantasized about this moment, about finding victory where his line had only found suffering, and, instead of a dramatic speech or a triumphant cheer, he was blinking, and clinging to Tauriel’s arm.

Then a body crashed into him. Fíli was a good reason to let go of Tauriel. They clung, pouring mute apologies and gratitude into each other. Tears rolled down his cheeks as the rush of what they had done began to dissipate.

Fíli was alive.

They had retaken the mountain.

“Amad tadrafiya astu nadadith.”

“Astu ya nadadzanid.”

“Ori tamahi kamtith udu astu.”

“No. Don’t let him.”

“Have to, you killed Smaug. I saw it. Needs poetry. Maybe a ballad.”

Kíli croaked on a laugh, and tightened his grip. “You were the runner. You could have--”

“Didn’t.”

Somewhere beyond them, he heard voices rise. Kíli truly did not care. The brothers would need several long nights of conversation and four or five brutal sparring sessions to be back to their normal selves, to shed all of the baggage they had built up in a week of brittle animosity that had intensified as they travelled, but the reassurance of his kin and closest friend at his side was easing a rift he had ignored.

His brother could hardly stand, and it was no wonder considering how he looked and what he must have done. Kíli was floating on the knowledge of what his hands had achieved; it would take longer before he would collapse. Fíli had done more.

It may have been his shot that killed the dragon, but it was his brother that had made it possible. There was a stench of seared leather, and a bite of copper in the air. Tragedy had been too close.

If Ori didn’t write a ballad about Fíli’s run, Kíli would do it himself. Tauriel could help. Elves were good at that. And one to Frey, wherever she had gone off to. He was still dumbfounded that she was alive. Any of them.

The brothers separated when they heard a pained yelp.

Dwalin and Bofur had Nori pinned down, while Óin and Tauriel crouched over him. He was on his stomach, and there was a stripe of skin visible between the parted dark leather. Both brothers stumbled closer, smelling the tang of blood that made his teeth sting. Óin had made the run across Erebor with a bag of healing supplies on his back, hoping they would live to need them.

They did as it happened.

It was spilled open on the ground, and no one ever took comfort in seeing a healer move so fast.

Kíli held onto Fíli, helping him stay upright as they waited in vigil.

The company was silent, unable to find mirth and celebration as they waited to see if they had lost a member. Óin and Tauriel were not. They shouted for various things from the supply packs, and sent Bard, who was by far the most clear headed, for the bags with water and salves from another chamber. Kíli glanced, realized that Frey wasn’t in the room, and was about to prod his brother into finding her. He didn’t know her state. He didn’t know whether she needed the healers’ attention after Nori, and generally when she vanished bad things happened.

But then a flask was tipped into Nori’s wound to clean it, and the dwarf awoke fully. Screaming. That rapidly thrust any thought of his brother’s estranged marluna from his mind.

Bofur dropped his weight onto Nori’s uninjured shoulder and head to keep him still. He was muttering something soft and quiet as he did, but his hands were unforgiving. Dwalin, holding Nori’s legs, got kicked before he could shift and lock him down.

The screaming didn’t stop.

With their movement, Kíli could see the gash opened from shoulder to hip along Nori’s back, deep and gushing blood. He looked away as soon as he did, accidentally meeting Thorin’s eyes where his uncle was holding their injured hobbit. Both winced when Nori screamed louder. The healers had resumed.

Undeterred, Tauriel had her head bent low and was staring at the wound as Óin moved the stream of liquid along the length of it. She nodded confirmation by the time the flask was empty and they had reached his hip. The thief twitched, and convulsed under the hands that held him. Dori put threaded needles in Tauriel and Óin’s hands, and they started stitching. There would be bruises beneath Bofur and Dwalin’s grips, but they kept him still.

Kíli didn’t look away, knowing that his uncle and brother would be doing the same. Offering the honor of witness to their companion’s sacrifice and pain. It had to have been from the dragon’s claw.

There wasn’t much left salvageable of Nori’s coat and clothing when it was finished, and the decision was made to cut the rest of it off his torso before moving him.

He was going to be pissed when he realized his binder was in two pieces. He was back in the one piece though.

Stitched together, wrapped in bandages, and delirious from pain and whatever tiny vial Óin had tipped into his mouth after the sewing was done, but no longer dying. Kíli recalled the pain of his side as they sat on the Carrock, and didn’t like the thought that Óin had deemed this bad enough to warrant something to help.

Durin guilt, that long standing companion, bristled, and Kíli had to acknowledge that the greatest sacrifice made in reclaiming Erebor had not been made by his line.

Nori would also need a ballad. It wouldn’t be a traditional one.

He turned to ask Fíli a question, and found him on the ground, leaning into a stray rock, soundly asleep despite the pained grimace. It seized at Kíli’s chest for a flash before he could observe. Fíli was injured, Kíli was certain of that, but he had been moving well enough, and had no visible blood on his torso or mouth, so, after checking closely, Kíli did not wake him. Once the others had been seen to, he would be sure that Tauriel investigated whatever it was. His brother had spent hours leading a murderous worm across a fractured maze of a mountain, he had earned his rest.

 

* * *

 

Dwalin walked to where his king had the hobbit in his arms, the moment Óin and the elf dismissed him from his task. Ori had found a space further inside the mountain that they could use as a safe retreat, and conjured a bed out of the blankets and what not that had survived for his brother’s use. The man and the elf had insisted, and carried Nori on an improvised stretcher, deeply unconscious and too far drugged to so much as twitch.

So Dwalin went to his king, where the sod was attempting to look like he wasn’t panicking about Bilbo’s health.

Dwalin had watched it happen, and thought then that Mahal truly hated Durin’s heir.

He had seen Bilbo pinned to the wall by an arrow larger than he was. Just for a moment, but he had seen it. Bard’s arrow had ricocheted off a perfect shot, and struck Bilbo. Black arrows could kill dragons, and their hobbit was still with them.

It was no wonder that Thorin was hovering and scowling, hiding his concern behind a foul mood.

Off went the hobbit’s coat at Óin’s urging, and every dwarf nearby pitched their head to the side. The waistcoat followed, and Kíli gasped.

It was more mithril than he had seen in the whole course of his life.

“How? Bilbo…. Where did you find that?” Thorin touched it gently, helping to slip it over the hobbit’s head, and lay it reverently on the rock that they were using as a seat. When the shirt followed and skin was revealed, Óin bent closer, to prod at the reddened area of his chest.

“Your ribs are bruised but not broken, I should think. And, unless hobbits are made different, they are not cracked.” He pronounced a moment later, sending Glóin jogging back to a stain of red on the floor for a particular tub of salve. “You’ll be in pain though, for several weeks. Take deep breaths whenever ya think about it. Don’t care if it hurts ya lad. Needs to be done.”

Bilbo nodded, and Thorin’ held his shoulders as he spread the paste over his chest.

That arrow should have impaled him.

Bard had cried out in warning as they all saw it change direction, and now hovered on the edge of the group. “My apologies, Master Baggins.”

“For what?”

“It was an arrow shot from my bow that struck you.”

“Bah, it -- ahhh -- it wasn’t your intent.”

“I thought I had killed you.” Everyone had. Everyone that had seen it had been sure, which left only the question of why their hobbit-burglar, who had never shown a fondness for wealth or fine metals or armor, had put on an exorbitantly expensive piece of it. More importantly, how he had known he might need it.

That had to wait. In the meantime, Dwalin thanked Mahal that he had. While he was at it, he threw another set of appreciative adulations at his creator for the luck that had deigned to make a rare appearance. He had been with several others, ducking behind columns and keeping the dragon distracted when Kíli prevailed. The building had come down, and there had been no reason why he and Glóin had dragged the others backwards a moment earlier. None. But there it was. On occasion, their maker remembered them, and decided to help.

It had been a miraculous day.

Watching how Thorin cradled Bilbo against him, whispering fragmented khuzdul prayers of thanks -- prayers that had been rarely uttered -- his king would agree.

While Bilbo’s feet and legs were seen to, and deemed non threatening, but mightily painful, Dwalin began to retreat. Salves and bandages were placed over the weeping and broken blisters. At the very end, Bilbo had run on those, trying to delay Smaug one last time. No doubt that was why his feet now looked so horrid.

Óin finished, and Thorin tolerated no protest as he carried Bilbo down the hall to find the comfort of the room they’d claimed.

This wasn’t quite the way he had pictured the moment as he had tromped along after king and heirs to fight a dragon. If he’d been pressed to tell the truth on their journey, he hadn’t thought they’d manage it. An army had failed. What hope did they have?

Kíli was good, but it was a hard shot in the best of times. Their prince had done it with a mountain shattering above him, a dragon trying to kill him, and using a hodge podge of a weapon they hadn’t been certain would fire anything at all.

When he had allowed himself to consider it, once or twice in quiet sections of travel, Dwalin had imagined there would be cheering.

There would have been, if half of them hadn’t come crawling out of rubble, dust speckled and lightly bleeding. If the other half hadn’t been broken and stunned, there would have been at least a bit.

Instead all there was in that great forgotten home was bit of red on the floor, and a few decades shaved off his life from the stress of the last day.

There was more than enough mercy to serve as consolation for the lack of shouted praise.

Ori was well; Dwalin had checked as best he could while holding Nori to the ground; saving his intended’s brother was more important than hugging his intended. Dori was inscrutable, which meant he was near to hysterics, but he was uninjured, and would recover as long as Nori did. Bofur and Bifur and Bombur were scurrying back and forth getting the packs that had been dropped in side halls and checking the still unstable architecture for likely collapses. Their line’s impressive stone sense kept them from catastrophe now as it had during the fight. Glóin tagged after his brother, carrying a bag of supplies as needed.

That meant--

Dwalin grinned, and smiled at his older brother as a hand clapped on his shoulder.

He’d been a child of the exile, and reared on stories from Fundin and Balin about Erebor. He had grown up on them, never thinking he would see it himself, but always staying hopeful for his brother’s sake. The tears in Balin’s eyes were a damn fine reward. The last time he’d seen joyful tears -- not tears of fractured relief, not tears of bittersweet pain -- had been when Kíli was born.

Eighty years was too long to last without joy. Even for a dwarf.

“Well, this’ll take ages to get rid of won’t it?” Balin quipped, glancing at the corpse.

“Could always burn it. Only fitting.” His jest was met with that look of disgust and irritation only his brother had mastered.

“Best not even to laugh on that one brother. Ori found a few old texts about what might happen if the dragon had died before we arrived. Perhaps you should ask him what he’s learned. If you can stop beaming at him like a milksop that is.”

Dwalin was too happy to even be bothered.

He did smile at Ori like a newly sharpened axe. Anyone would be deliriously happy to spend time with their intended, and anyone that didn’t probably ought to rethink the whole notion. Some things just mattered more.

His mind caught up to him, and despite the detour his brother had provided, Dwalin finished counting off the company. Tauriel and Bard would still be with Nori. Kíli had trailed after once they were sure Bilbo was well, watching the elf. His elf. No point arguing that point either. She’d fought with them. Helped them bring down the dragon. Anyone that objected to whatever Kíli asked them to accept would have to be willing to deny the dragonslayer.

And that wouldn’t happen.

So. Dwalin just had to get used to referring to the elf that had been their jailor as Kíli’s whatever she was. In a decade or two the sting of that would fade.

That just left Fíli.

Who he found a moment later, having a nap against a boulder.

Lad had been through alot in the last day -- well, week -- and if it hadn’t been coming on to the latter half of autumn, and if Dwalin hadn’t wanted to shove him at both healers to be sure he was well, he would have let him stay there.

As it was, he and Balin walked over, and shook him gently.

Fíli grunted, and dragged himself awake when Dwalin rubbed his shoulder.

“If need be, I can always carry you, ze’kidzulith.” That was a nickname that hadn’t been used in half a century. It served though when it fell out of Dwalin’s mouth, motivated more by relief than his usual teasing. Fíli woke the rest of the way, and let himself be pulled to his drowsy feet. The few hours of rest were not enough, and both of Fundin’s sons intended that their prince wake up sometime around the next dawn at the earliest.

A few days of that would serve to recuperate the exhaustion. He’d not hardly slept as they travelled, and then crossed a mountain with a dragon at his heels. That he was upright at all was impressive enough to earn him a rest.

They guided him down the hall to the others, bracketing him. Only once or twice did they have to catch his weight as he dozed and drifted.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was insistent that Thorin get up and go check on Fíli.

It loosed the conflict in his chest, and he went, too relieved to have the whole of his company alive to mind that the kiss he pressed to Bilbo’s forehead had been seen by all of them. Not that he would have waited longer than the next dawn to make an official, formal declaration of his intent. It simplified things. He had to admit that.

There would still need to be a formal statement, but in this case he could delay a few weeks.

His hobbit -- his incredible, brave, injured hobbit -- stayed leaning against a wall, and Thorin hurried to his nephew.

The Company’s refuge was once a dining hall, and the tables and benches had survived. It was unsettling to see the elf and the man inside Erebor, but Thorin was more concerned with Fíli’s wince as he sat on the tabletop.

Thorin, Kíli and Tauriel got Fíli out of his various layers to see why. She didn’t need to touch him, only look, before she announced, “You’ve cracked several ribs. Five, I should think. You fell?”

Fíli nodded, mouth contorting as he hissed in time with her fingers’ investigation.

There was a broad swath of purpling red from Fíli’s middle back to his shoulder. It matched the puffy red marks on his chest, and the smaller bruises on his arms. There were scrapes over his back, and the fabric of his trousers was scuffed, but it seemed the worst of the damage was centered on his ribs.

“You fell on this side more than once did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Next time, try to land on different parts, nephew.”

Fíli’s lip tweaked like it wanted to smile, but could not commit to it.

Where the skin had split open, Tauriel cleaned it, but the bruising was more extensive than their supply of salves. She placed a few stitches, and Fíli did not react except to hold on to Kíli’s arm. Thorin had thought his heir was lost, and even mottled in purple, it was a relief to see him largely whole and hale. He was a dwarf, and as fine a specimen of their kind as could be found, this was not enough to end him.

The tattoos on his chest and arm vanished into the damage. Thorin had taken injuries like that, and knew the lingering pain they carried, as well as the sharp bite of a deep breath. They were not so different from what marred his Bilbo, only amplified.

There were faint burns visible, pink and shiny. Even dwarven resilience and layered leather could not withstand dragon fire. Small cuts and scrapes were not dangerous but did tell a story of the challenges Fíli had faced.

He had to fight back panic at the intrusive image of what could have been. It would do no good. What dangers they had faced were his responsibility as their leader and their king, but they had joined freely. His nephews, despite his wish to shield them, would one day bear the weight of their people, and have every right to make the journey. That it could have proved calamitous did not stop his pride in their actions.

Long years past, when they were children, and too naive, they had both made whole hearted vows to get Erebor back for Thorin. They hadn’t understood then what that would encompass. Thorin had to focus to keep from crying at the realization that his boys had done just as they had sworn they would.

They had given him Erebor. Bilbo had brought him the Arkenstone. He was king under the mountain. A ruined and helpless mountain, but he was the king of it, truly, for the first time in his life. When the rest of his kind returned, they would begin to remake it, better than it had been in his grandfather’s time. They would reclaim what was rightly theirs. They would be treated with respect and honor.

If Thorin felt particularly magnanimous, he might even agree to trade with the wood elves.

“You need more supplies than you have here at present, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The king snapped back to the moment, and faced Bard’s dry declaration.

“We do.”

“And I need to return to my bairns before the eldest takes to sleeping at the windlance where we left her. If she has not already.”

An amusing, but no doubt uncomfortable situation, particularly in light of the odious and distrustful nature of the Master. He sneered at the thought. He would be forced to treat with that sack of obsequious fat too.  

“There are still many hours of daylight, but surely you need rest before returning to Laketown.”

The man glanced around the room, and sighed a long breath.

“I will see them sooner if I leave now. If you can offer a fair price, I am happy to bring the first caravan of supplies to your mountain.”

“You are no trader.”

“Perhaps not, but I can see when winter is coming, and it is thanks to you that the threat which has loomed over us for for generations is gone.”

“Hardly.” Bard stopped at Thorin’s sharp tone. “It is because of my nephew, and because of the arrow that you shot Master Bargeman.”

“The arrow I shot nearly killed Master Baggins.”

Thorin would not deny that. “I spoke of the one that struck the dragon’s eye. Nor did I refute your status as a trader because I doubted the wisdom of the suggestion. However, you are descended from Girion.”Thorin was not overly fond of the man’s coarse and dry humor, but it far surpassed the Master, and his character had been proven loyal and just. Dale could do far worse. It would mean easier trading for Erebor. Dale could be left to council with the men of the lake.

Bard offered no answer to that inquiry, and gave congratulatory farewells to Dwalin and Balin and Bilbo before he took his small bag and departed.

Thorin watched him, then turned back to see Fíli standing as bandages were tightly wrapped over the worst of the damage to his ribs. It would be temporary protection.

Much of the company was asleep, slumped here and there against each other, or comfortable patches of wall. Nori was in a nest of soft things, stripped to the waist and laying on his stomach, a bandage laid gently over a wound that could have just as easily killed him. Bofur was dozing beside him, sitting up, and he would intermittently wake to check the thief’s health.

The gash had come from the dragon’s claw as Smaug stepped over him. Nori had the luck of any ten dwarves. Anything different in that moment would have killed him long before the dragon fell. All the same, it would be days before Óin allowed him to move, and there was no guess as to what fetid decay had been left by the dragon’s long residence.

But they were alive.

Near silent, as close to peaceful as the time after a battle could be, his company was triumphant. Weary, but triumphant. Tauriel completed her task and Kíli helped his brother back into his coat, not bothering with additional layers as the mountain was heated by the dragon’s inhabitance.

A pointed look ensured that Kíli did not quite curl up to cuddle with the elf, but that was as much as Thorin’s dour gaze could achieve. Kíli still leaned beside her, and they stared at each other in admiring silence.

Dis would yell at him if he attempted to separate them. Though, she would also yell if he did not inform her of such a development. His sister was not one to suffer fools, and she had oft told him that she yelled because she refused to tell him twice, and wanted him to have the best chance of getting her message into his thick skull.

There was more than one reason to write.

Erebor. Smaug. Her sons were healthy. Azog had returned and then fallen.

“How did you know you needed that Bilbo?”

Thorin shook off the idle meanderings of his mind as Fíli spoke.

“Yeah, you’ve never been one for shiny things like us lot.” Kíli added from the wall.

“Needed what?”

“The mithril.”

“Mithril?”

“The chain shirt that you were wearing.” Fíli asked stiffly.

“Freya insisted.” Bilbo answered with his usual irritation, pushing the second word with the outrage that only a hobbit could muster. Kíli scoffed, and Thorin shrugged in agreement. Of course it was her. Madder than the worst story he had heard, unpredictable and dangerous more likely than not, but single minded in her purpose. So long as her purpose was the continued health of those he cared for, the rest could be overlooked. Bilbo twitched his nose from his seat, “She manhandled me into it the first time we reached the armory. Very persistent. Wouldn’t let me leave without it.”

That sounded like her too. He would need to thank her. To properly appreciate what she had done for them. He had never really taken the time to do so after they arrived in Laketown. This was just another tally in the score.

This time was Bilbo, and her determination to protect him from the strike of a deflected arrow bolt went miles toward erasing the lingering whiff of distrust around her. He needed to thank her.

That was when he really looked around the room.

Now that he was looking for her, Frey was notably absent. She hadn’t fallen to the dragon. She had to have been as tired as Fíli, so she hadn’t gone off somewhere, and he had seen the blood down her face as she ran into the Gallery of the Kings.

One of the others must have taken her to lay down while he and Tauriel were still climbing out from beneath rubble. She must have wanted privacy; Freya often kept herself separate from them as they made camp.

It was the only explanation.

Save that Fíli would not look so devastated if she was in the room.

“Where did she go?” Thorin directed it to Balin and Dwalin, expecting that they at least had kept their heads in the aftermath.

“She went outside.” Fíli answered.

“When?”

“Before Kíli climbed out of that pile of stone. I got distracted.”

That was unfortunate. It had been hours since then. Half a day or more.

Thorin caught Fíli’s shoulder before his heir could do something rash. If it was Bilbo, Thorin knew he would be beyond reason. Whatever words of comfort or query he intended to speak never left his mouth. There was a faint chaos coming down the hall.

He, his nephews, Dwalin, Balin, and Tauriel stepped out to look, and found Bard walking back to them, carrying her as she tried to get away. What may have started as a protective hold was a desperate attempt not to drop her by the time he saw it. She was squirming, kicking, grumbling in her own tongue, and Bard carried her with the patience of a father whose children had done worse.

He paused a few steps away, keeping her airborne.

“I believe you forgot this.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, it’s moments like this that make her keep saying fourteen instead of fifteen.” Kíli said, as he walked away with Tauriel.

There was nothing to say to that. It didn’t matter how many times Fíli told her she was one of them, moments like this would always undermine her believing it. Rightly so. Fíli wanted to blame the others for failing to notice, her absence but would not deny his guilt. Exhaustion was no excuse. He had seen her walk outside, and should have followed. Instead he had been overwhelmed at the sight of his brother, and she had fallen from his mind long enough for sleep to drag him down.

Fíli stood by his brother, and watched through a doorway as Óin washed the blood and dirt from the cut across Frey’s face, still and solid as the mountain above them. She was in her own head, playing and replaying something that made her gaze vacant and her jaw tense. The cut, despite being the most obvious, was the last thing that Óin addressed. Whatever other injuries she had taken had been seen to before Fíli had found the courage to come closer. The cut bled sluggishly as the dirt caking it shut was removed, but it was not, and never had been a fatal wound.

He hadn’t had the audacity to stand and leer as the healer worked. It was only after Tauriel had left with Kíli that he had edged to the door to wait.

Fíli should have realized sooner. As soon as he woke, he should have checked on her. But, he had been stuck reexamining the way she had recoiled when he tried to reach for her. He had thought about the way she had run from him, and how angry she surely was now that the threat of the dragon had lifted the veil of connection and trust that had kept them together in their flight.

He had given up any right to stand by her after what he had done in Laketown. As he had done it, he had known what it meant, and while it was unsuccessful, it did not change that he could not expect anything from her again. The sight of her beneath Smaug, enraged, murderous, bleeding, and blessedly alive was seared into his mind. She had helped to keep him safe, above her own life, and had done all that she could to bring Smaug to his end.

Just as she had sworn.

Although, it was Frey; she really did make a habit of risking her life for them in stupid ways when they absolutely did not deserve it.

She choked on a gasp, and Fíli watched her. The healer set down the flask of spirits he had just poured over the cut. The bottom of it bisected the arch of her eyebrow, and the top curved back toward her temple. Óin started stitching it closed. Frey clenched her jaw, pressed fists into the stone, and flinched with every pass of the needle.

Óin didn’t reprimand her for it.

And Fíli didn’t follow the impulse to join them.

When it was done, he slathered it with the last of a jar of salve to prevent infection.

Having already checked her for other injuries, which Fíli had overheard, categorized, and fretted about, Óin declared her in need of rest, shoved a blanket at her, and stomped out of the room.

He halted on the threshold, the rebuke obvious before he spoke.

“If the lass breaks yer nose again, come ‘n find me, lad.”

“I--”

“Don’t argue with yer elders, nudn.”

Óin stomped off toward the chamber with the others, where the ever practical dwarf would no doubt fall quickly asleep.

Fíli was a fool, but he was not dumb enough to step inside that room. She would definitely break his nose again. That was if he was lucky. If he wasn’t? Well, it would be good he and Kíli had made amends. Even if Frey didn’t, his amad was going to kill him. She had taught him better. The epiphany was painfully sudden. Their amad, upon hearing what they had done, was going to kill Fíli for Laketown, bring him back, and then kill him again for letting Kíli face the dragon. Then bring him back a third time to kill him for putting himself up as dragon’s bait.

He liked to think that he could persuade Mahal not to send him back more than once, but having seen his mother on a warpath, he had to be reasonable. They should have brought her. Unfortunately, she had been the only one Thorin trusted to single handedly run a mountain. She was not going to be happy.

No she wouldn’t. They all told jests and tales about his Amad, stories that grew larger each time she won a tournament, but if she saw her boys, even pining after the unattainable and making a hash of things, she would pull them into the hug they both needed so badly.

He closed his eyes on a sigh.

He opened them when he heard a huff.

Freya glared until Fíli moved out of the way and let her past.

She picked up the waterskin Kíli had hung by the door. As she walked toward the others, Fíli checked over her again. She hadn’t put her boots back on, and her feet were uneven and halting walking over the stone-strewn floor. There was a slash on her leg, mirroring the one they had failed to notice as they sat on a stone tower and rejoiced at surviving Azog’s attack. This one at least had been cleaned and bound and deemed little more than a scratch. He could see the bit of bandage between the tear in the fabric.

The edge of fur on her coat was irregular and tattered, burned away, and the brown leather above it was stained with scorch marks. Shortened by the same attacks, the ties on the lacing hanging from the small of her back bobbed as she moved. The gloves Kíli had given her were in a pocket, removed when they checked her wrists, and they had no doubt saved her from blisters on her palms the many times they had fallen in areas that Smaug had recently blasted with fire.  

She was limping from sore muscles and the bruising the Óin had listed as stretching up her entire left side. He knew it matched the bruising on his right, and was glad she hadn’t needed to have her ribs bound against further damage.

He had managed that for her at least.

He had managed to keep her from that. He was grateful for it.

She was alive.

She had changed her hair.

He didn’t like that she wore it now in a single plait down her neck, thrown into disarray, but notably different from the night she had left them, but, that was as it should be. The simple meaningless braids he had taken the time to place before the feast were gone, and her hair was -- or at least it had been -- bound back in a bun. It was in disarray, was streaked with blood, dulled with dirt, and limp around her face. No doubt she had lost part of it to dragon fire.

His greedy savoring of the proof she was alive had distracted him. It took too long for him to see that she had stopped, struggling to open the cork of the waterskin, hands turned clumsy by the last day’s exertion. Aggravation mounting, it only got harder for her to try to grasp the bit of antler.

He had no right, but still hurried to help.

Frey’s hand shot out to smack him, and pulled up short before she could hit the bandages on his chest. The worst of his injuries were on his back, but he was grateful not to have to hide any substantial pain.

“ _Pleasedontmake_ me _beanadultrightnow_. Go.”

Of course he would, but first he was going to make sure she drank some of that water, and ate something, and found somewhere to sleep more comfortable than a patch of floor or wall. Her hate wasn’t going to be made worse by a few more minutes, and she never took proper care of herself. In months of watching, that had become apparent. He opened the cap, and held it for her when her hands couldn’t keep it steady.

The first time they had seen her, they had all agreed she had no experience of the world. Since then, somewhere between infuriation and rescue, he had forgotten that her first kill had been only a few months earlier. That she was not used to such a life.

“I _meanit_ Fíli. _Goaway_. I _cannothandlebeinganadult_. I _willstarteitheryellingorcrying_. _Dontwanttodoeither_. And you _arestillallbruisedintheface_  and I _feelbadaboutthat_. _Notalotbadbutyeah_. Please. Go. _Becausethisisntthetime_.”

She wasn’t yelling. She was desolate.

He should probably take the opportunity she had granted, and leave her on good terms as asked. His hand had found her elbow as he helped her drink though, and it had been hard enough trying to push her away the first time. Fíli wasn’t sure he could do it again. He didn’t think he could turn away from her.

“Go.” Still hollow.

“I don’t want to, Frey.”

Frey rolled her neck and Fíli flinched at the way it cracked. She rolled the opposite direction, biting at her lips. “You _reallywannadothisnow_?”

“Frey, I am sorry.” He carefully spoke in her language, in dragon’s tongue, and it went even worse than the last time he tried.

She sucked in a breath that quivered, and forced it out in a burst. She did it again. She shook out her hands, recapped the water and looked at him. “ _Fineasshat. Wecandothisnow_.”

Centered and fuming, she stomped down a short passage, dragging him by the sleeve, ducking her head into doorways before finding one that satisfied. It seemed the judging criterion was the presence of a door. She shut it after flinging him inside, and spun, back pressed against ancient wood. Fíli hesitated in the center of the room, unsure what was happening, but willing to stand and face judgement as long as it meant that he ---

He had to stop himself thinking that way.

There was a reason he had only done generalized braids before the feast. Why he had not kissed her again after placing them. He had known the moment he left the room to search for tea that he had forsaken any claim he had.

Besides, running from his fate seemed ridiculous considering what they had run from earlier.

“ _If_ you _wanttotryandfixitnowsyourchance_.”

“I am sorry. For Laketown. And for Rivendell. And for every time I have doubted you, of which there were many, and I will not insult you by pretending otherwise. I didn’t want you to die and I couldn’t think of any other way to stop you.”

“I _reallycouldnotcareless_ Fíli, _cutthesentiment_.”

The exact meaning was lost on him, but her tone was clear.

“You can hate me if you wish. I expect you will. But I could not let you take a risk my people feared, and shoulder it as your own. I had to stop you. Or at least try.” His voice creaked, and he paused to breathe and swallow, clinging to old lessons on public pronouncements. If he let himself speak to her directly, intimately, he would never hold to his composure. “You have done much to protect us Freya. You kept us from danger, or you attempted to, even when we were too pigheaded to notice.

“But whatever is still to come -- It is not your fight. You swore to see Thorin here as king, and he is. King Thorin, not Dain. You have done as you swore you would. Whatever else you have seen -- orcs, or armies. Bolg. You have mentioned things and never explained in full, but you do not need to risk yourself. That is our fight.”

She rocked her head back and forth, nose wrinkling in her snarling confusion, clinging, it seemed, to tendrils of control.

What she was holding back, he could not tell.

“ _Dontbelikethis_ Fíli. _Dontlookat_ me _likethat_. I _told_ you I _couldntbeanadultrightnow_. _Wasntkidding._ ”

“Freya, I know that you,” he choked, and forced himself to speak, hoping some fragment of his meaning would get through to her, but was too much a coward not to hide behind words she would not comprehend, “I know you do not value your life the way that I do, but I can simply hope that you will not do this again. If I had known that you survived the dragon’s first attack, I would have come to find you sooner. If you had not fled from Laketown, I would not let you face Smaug. You already-- Azog attacked us in the forest and -- you have already -- If Bolg comes I will--”

“No. Do not. No. Not that. No.” She snapped at him, flushed, “You _werentsupposedto_ \--You are not for to see Smaug. Are not for see Bolg. Not for see Azog. You _dontgettoseeanyonethatwantstokill_ you. No. I _workedtoofuckinghardtokeepyourassalivethislong_. You _werentsupposedtobethere_. Bilbo and I and we are make for dead Smaug. And you--”

“You weren’t meant to be there either!” He cracked at the sight of her starting to cry, “Frey! Thorin was happy to send you with Bilbo and let you die saving him. I wasn’t. I wouldn’t let you do that.” His temper rose, and words continued where he would have silenced them, “But you’re too block headed stubborn to listen to reason. You would have merrily run to your death and never considered that we need you. That I need you. You do not think Frey. You do not ever. You are one of us. I know we keep buggering that up. I know we’ve treated you terribly, but you are one of us, so stop trying to get yourself killed! No death!”

“Me? I not am want death. Fíli You? You are for want death! Why you are for see Smaug? Why you are follow me for Smaug? Is bad. I am see. I am go for Smaug and for run with Bilbo! I. Me! Not you.”

“You needed help.”

“Oh _dontgive_ me _thatpatronizingbullshitblondie_.” He didn’t know how she could still be so angry with tears in her eyes.

“We thought you were dead, and someone had to go to find Smaug. We had a plan.”

She punched him in the chest and pointed, “No. No. Durin plan is bad. My plan. Trust. Trust and no dead Durin. _Howmanyfrickingtimesdo_ I _havetotell_ you _that_? No dead Durins.”

He caught her wrist as she tried to hit him again, preventing her from sending another spike of pain through his chest.

He could have lost her.

All too easily, too many times, he could have lost her. She would continue to fling herself at danger for their sake, no matter what it would cost her. There was no stopping her by force. Any hope of changing her ways was rooted in changing her opinion of them.

He had no right, but could not stop the maniacal thought that maybe it would anger her enough to finally stop her foolish crusade to protect them all.

Fíli ducked, and kissed her.

It was likely -- no, he hoped that she would exact penance for it, but he could not help himself.

Her hands twisted in his, but since he knew she would have no qualms about taking drastic measures, he held onto this last opportunity. It was bitter and tender, and she neither pulled away nor responded. He knew it would further decimate the trust he had broken, but it was the only way he had to say how sorry he was, and the pounding need to express that proved to be too much.

He wanted to tell her and have her understand. He wanted to be able to explain that her idiocy and her loyalty and her ferocity were shining moments in his life, which he could not stand the thought of losing. He wanted to ramble into khuzdul, writing poetry about her deeds and her courage in the face of everything that the company and the world had thrown at them.

He couldn’t do any of that, so he kissed her into a moment’s calm, and seized on hope while he could pretend that she was just too stunned to react. While he could pretend it would last.

It didn’t.

She wrenched back from him, and he let her go. Of course he let her go.

Her eyes were shut and her head swung back and forth, expression contorted and angry.

Then her eyes snapped open, and Frey slapped him.

Fíli stood up straighter at that, not responding to the sting on his cheek or the impression that an avalanche was cascading through him. Angry tears slipped from her eyes, and her jaw was tense.

She slapped him again with the same hand, in the same spot.

Her hand hovered in front of his chest, deciding whether to hit him again.

“I _sweartogod_ Fíli _if_ you _evertrysomethinglikethatagain_ I _willtakeyourswords_ and _ramthembackwardupyourassuntil_ you _tastesteel_. I _knowexactlywhat_ you _thought_ you _weredoing._ I _ampissedbutnotstupid_ you _fecklesstwatgoblin._ You _thoughtthatIwouldrunoff. Stopthinkingthat. Wearentdoneyet. Thereisshitstilltocome._ ” Her voice was broken and low, but fervent. It only grew more so as her hand tightened on his furs, just over his heart. No doubt she could feel the way it thundered.

He nodded an assent to whatever she was asking, and used the burning of his cheek as a leash to keep from kissing her again. Or touching her again. Or moving.

Just because she wasn’t his, didn’t change that he wanted her.  

“Good.” She whispered the answer in Westron like a vulgarity. He didn’t notice her moving, too intent on the evidence of her injuries, of her sacrifices, to tell that the rictus and frown had altered. They were still there, certainly, but they had changed. He was preoccupied with the way her hand had loosed its hold, and her finger had slipped beneath the fur to find skin. Fíli was busy looking at the salve Óin had smeared over her eye, and the blood stiffening her hair. Her eyes had fallen to look at her hand, and he could just see the faint outrage on her face, as if offended that her fingers’ kindness had betrayed her anger.

“Frey…” Fíli lifted his hand to take hers, but didn’t move fast enough.

“Nope.”

There was a moment in between that he lost.

She had looked up, eyes ablaze: still furious.

He had opened his mouth to apologize one last time before departing, even if she would not hear it, or know how thoroughly he meant it. Something changed, shifted, but he did not know what because his mind went blank for a moment.

Fíli’s world burst back open in sparks and fire as intoxicating as a dragon’s spell.

He came back to himself and found one of her hands slid wholly in his coat, pressed over his heart, and the other in his hair, keeping their mouths together. His own were tucked beneath her thighs, holding her up; not entirely necessary since her legs were wrapped round his waist, and he had her pressed into the wall. It was a marvelous realization. One that nearly unstrung his mind.

Dimly aware of his actions beneath the cacophony of joy-- and the want of his body had clearly reacted without permission of his mind -- he let his thumbs rub circles on the outermost swell of her leg, and kissed with the intensity he had previously restrained.

She gasped as he pressed closer, allowing one hand to rove higher, tracing the curve of her hips and waist.

They kissed sloppily, desperately, ebbing and flowing control until she caught his bottom lip between her teeth. As she pulled back, she traced her tongue over it, and he groaned. For a moment they were held there, mouths touching but stilled, panting.

“Fí.” It was near enough to a whimper that he thought he had harmed her.

He needed to put her down. He needed to step back from the wall and let her down, and at least pretend that they were responsible. Mahal’s balls, they were both bruised and blistered and beyond exhaustion. But Fíli shifted his weight while trying to convince himself to do so. She slid, and he caught her without thinking, rolling his hips tighter into hers. She moaned breathlessly, grip never loosening, and all hope of stopping evaporated.

He tilted her head to the side and dragged kisses over her exposed neck as if he could brand his love into the pulse beneath his lips. He traced slow circles over a tightening nipple with his thumb, and returned to her mouth.

There wasn’t any chance of communicating with words, not between the pair of them, not now, and he wasn’t going to waste time trying to do so. Not when this chance was before him. Not when she was gasping entreating little sounds, and straining to nip at his ear.

When she squirmed in his grip, he noticed that her hands hadn’t been idle. His coat was open, but he refused to relinquish his hold. She tugged the collar down, and Fíli moved his hands from her long enough to get the thing off of him and onto the ground. Before he could reclaim control and continue extracting delicious little whimpers from her, she had frozen, hands placed over his chest, eyes locked on the bandages wrapped around him.

Frey clapped a hand over his mouth, and used the other to trail along the cloth. Her lip trembled when she saw the bruises that extended beyond the bandage. She dropped her legs from his waist, and cupped his face as she distracted him with kisses, and turned them to push his back to the wall.

His own hands refused to stay at his side, and he loosed the belt of the coat he had given her, grateful for whatever protection it had afforded, but letting it fall with a whump nevertheless. When they had helped her, they must have needed to strip her down, because his hands found skin as they slid up the small of her back. Gritty with dirt and the salty residue of their sweltering escape, he followed skin to new fabric; the binder she had been given, except slipped low onto her waist.  

Pulling back to find the lace of it, he found instead a match to the bandages he wore to protect cracked ribs. He found bruises sprawling around her left side and arm that were stark against skin like dark topaz.

They froze again, both looking at the proof of how near they had come to failing, and how much they both had risked. In the pale glow of Erebor’s natural light, they waited, both counting a tally of ways they had failed the other.

She muttered under her breath after she kissed the very border of the bruise where it crept onto his chest, too softly for him to hear what it was, and knowing only that it was fervent. It sounded like promises and curses layered into each other. Her hands clutched at the fabric of his trousers, as if she worried he would vanish any moment. Or that she would.

The tips of his fingers followed the erratic red lines of raised welts that started on her shoulder, winding down toward her stomach. He traced them, and in so doing, dragged the back of his knuckles over the soft skin of her breast.

She shivered.

Her breathing turned shallow instantly.

She looked up at him, and Fíli did not know who moved first. It didn’t matter. They threw aside guilt over their injuries, and succumbed to suppressed wanting.

They met like a hammer’s blow, disregard and danger sending sparks skittering around them.

Patience and calm and aching pain vanished with their temporary lull, replaced by ferocity. Mouths unwilling to separate, worshipping, murmuring things the other could not understand, Fíli found his hands pushed aside by her impatience. He helped slide the fabric down, and she kicked off her trousers as they cleared her hips.

Her hands had already returned to his placket.

Thought and reason dissolved when her hand slipped beneath the cloth. Bruising marks into her hip with his fingertips, he ground them together, trapping her arm between them. His left hand dragged up her side, skipping the bandages that would cause him fear, and rediscovered the tightened peaks of her chest.

She shuddered, sending a trill of pleasure through his chest.

The sound that ghosted from her mouth was his undoing. She smelled like smoke and ruin and blood. She was marked over from the fight she had waged to protect him. She was mewling and yearning, and Mahal himself could not have pulled them apart in that moment.

They sank to the ground, and he was pressed against the wall as she straddled him.  He had a moment’s vision of her, clad in bandages, a loose binder, and a scrap of dark blue fabric that might once have been underthings. They would surely shred if he pulled too hard.

Then her hand slipped his cock free, and Fíli took the risk. A faint ripping sound barely registered in his mind as he snuck fingers past that bit of blue. He slid his fingers between the heat of her legs and moaned into her mouth at how wet she was. She bucked against his hand, and there was no chance he could keep himself from sliding fingers inside her while his thumb sought another prize, buried within the folds.

Impatient, determined, she pumped him a handful of times, still grinding against his hand and squeaking when the coarseness off his palm caught over her nipples. Frey would never allow him so much control for long, and when she twitched, smacking him to gain the advantage, he allowed it. He trusted her.

His mind and the whole of the world blazed when she sank down, and Fíli was lost.

He knew he found her hips to help guide her as she rode him.

He knew that words he feared she understood fell from his mouth as he left marks on her neck that he would regret when their blood cooled.

He knew she moaned her completion when he snuck his hand between them, stroking her each time she raised herself. He found his peak watching her come undone.

His blood did not cool so much as it simmered. In the haze of pleasure and exhaustion, relief and pain, he held onto her as they used their discarded clothing as a bed, and fell into the dark.

 

* * *

 

Frey waited until she knew he had fallen asleep before she began to crash. Wrapped in his arms, tucked against his chest, she was sticky and weak and panicking.

It was a mistake.

She had needed proof he was alive.

No good would come of it.

He had needed the same.

She would be his undoing.

She should have known better than to allow herself a taste of that happiness.

She would ruin everything.

She wouldn’t mean to, but she would.

Thorin and Bilbo had fucked and Smaug had smelled it and it had nearly gotten them all killed. Now she and Fíli--

Dragon’s lied. But dragons also saw things. Knew things.

Her feet led her back to the main gate while her hands finished tying her coat in place.

Smaug’s body, huge and grey and still lit by the dying light of the sun, loomed in her vision and her mind. Dragons knew things.

Smaug had crawled around her mind, and whether he passed that to Sauron or the great blinky bastard had passed it to him didn’t matter. Sauron knew enough that everything she thought she had known had been rendered worthless with a single flash of vision.

The world weighed her down and she melted to the floor against one of the newer piles of rubble, too small to avert the disaster that was looming.

Dust still drifted in the air.

Blood still stained the floor.

It wouldn’t be the last.  

Death was waiting to take away the victories she had managed. Threats were rising. Dangers were encircling the company.

Orcs. Goblins. Bats. Trolls. Wargs. Bolg. Azog. Sauron. The Master. Thranduil. Thorin.

Her.

There was more to be done, and a battle on the horizon. There was calamity and failure waiting to overwhelm her.

And she no longer knew what to expect.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone thinks this chapter needs tags for violence or sex, let me know, but I don't think its any worse than what I have posted before, so currently, I have none.  
> I am very happy with the response to the dragon fight. Obviously it's an important part of an quest fic, and I have been fussing at it and about it for ages now. It went through several drafts and total rewrites. Your comments made me dance around the room a lot.
> 
>  
> 
> **  
> **  
> And! Rae made another[8 tracks list for Frey](And!%20Rae%20made%20another%208%20tracks%20list%20for%20Frey). The first one [was for Freli](8tracks.com/attic-salt/frey-a-character-study). You should go listen to them!
> 
>  
> 
> Now then, don't expect chapter 27 in July. I am trying to get my manuscript put together for an original novel, and am making a push during Camp Nanowrimo. Hopefully this chapter left everyone in safe enough shape that you can handle a brief wait. Lovelovelove you all! XD  
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **KHUZDUL**  
>  Amad tadrafiya astu nadadith. : Mum is going to kill you baby brother  
> Astu ya nadadzanid. : You too big brother  
> Ori tamahi kamtith udu astu. : Ori is going to write songs about you  
> ze’kidzulith : little golden one  
> Nudn : Boy


	27. The Stones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are difficult choices to be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many languages. So much hover text. Also a word bank. I promise I'll never put this much again. This is too much, I _strongly encourage_ reading this on a computer so you can use the hovers.  
>  Now then. Thanks for being patient with me lovelies. It's looking like around the time (or not long after) I finish this fic, I'll also be (self)publishing an original novel that's.... I think the best description is to call it a cousin of this one. Specifically, the MC is like a cousin to Frey. So keep sending good thoughts, and enjoy your chapter.

Bofur wasn’t doing great. For a very simple reason:

Nori wasn’t doing great.

Hardly surprising. He’d near been torn in two by a dragon, it would’ve been far more surprising if he had been doing well. Predictability didn’t cheer Bofur up much.

As the day had worn on into afternoon and evening, the company had fallen asleep around him, and he had dozed in fits and starts. None of them got too much rest, and they all shifted and squirmed in their chosen resting places. Whatever Óin had given to Nori had been effective, Bofur had to admit that. Nori was sleeping deep and sound and without so much as a twitch to disturb him.

A twitch would have been nice.

Bofur would have appreciated a twitch or two.

That way, he could have confirmed that the thieving bastard was alive much easier than with all the constant checking on breathing. But, Nori needed to rest, and to stay still while his body put itself back together again, which wasn’t like to happen once he woke up and got antsy. Smaug had left a damn fine scar even if Nori was kept asleep long enough for it to knit together and not kill him.

Tomorrow they’d start to deal with everything that had happened. For now, they all needed the rest.

Only Bofur wasn’t resting. That was his own fault.

There was fault to be assigned.

Despite what Bifur had signed to him a few hours earlier, he wasn’t blaming this on Freya. Sure, she was an idiot holding Smaug’s attention like that, and sure, it would have been his instinct not all that long ago, but this particular act of stupidity rested firmly on the bastard next to him.

They’d be discussing that stupidity at length once said bastard was feeling well enough to sit upright, which Óin and the elf had promised everyone was a certainty unless a second dragon arrived and snarfed him down.

Dwarves were mighty unlucky folk, but that didn’t seem likely.

The whole damn company had a lot to discuss.

First of which would need to be the dragon currently taking up space in what had been a gate and gallery. Alot of space. Smaug wasn’t small. Not when he was alive. And as he hadn’t gotten any smaller when he died, their problem remained a bit intimidating.

After that came the question of who to contact to start spreading the good news. There was the matter of winter approaching, and them without enough supplies to be getting on with. There was the teensy fact that they’d had orcs hunting them for quite a while now, and those buggers weren’t prone to scampering off until they’d gotten what they’d come for, or gotten killed. There was the structural damage that Smaug had caused while in residence under the mountain. There were also elves living too close for comfort.

At least Frey had taken down Azog. Temporarily. Bofur wasn’t sold on the idea of him being fully and properly dead, even if the boys had talked about it like that, but he’d settle for out of the fight until they could get an army situated between the line of Durin and things as what wanted to see them without their heads attached.

Bofur’d never met the king’s sister, but he’d heard enough stories now that he’d come to a decision. If the orcs were still attempting to find the Durins when the caravans arrived, he was going to place a bet on Dis and Freya handling it all by their lonesome. A large bet. Most of his share. All of it, if’n he could find someone inclined to take that bet.

Battle rage and maternal rage would make a nice combination. Him and the others could sit back with a barrel in a high place and watch. A pint and fight also made a nice combination.

As would a bed and himself.

Or the elves and dwarven prison cells. That one would be a nice bit of turnaround if he could manage it. Not that he’d been in there. Not a fine bit of diplomacy either but that’d be someone else’s trouble to sort out.

Balin mayhaps.

It was deep in the night when Bofur’s silent, slightly nappy vigil and mental ambling was interrupted. Dwalin sat up to survey the room, and when he found Bofur awake, asked, “Fíli?”

“Not come back.”

“Need to find him then.” Dwalin grimaced as he said it.

Good of him to acknowledge the unpleasantness, but Bofur had to firmly disagree with the idea.“Oh do ya? I’ll leave that to you then, but I’m not inclined to interrupt the pair of ‘em.”

“Lass weren’t happy with him.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“You wanna be the one to tell Thorin you don’t know where his nephew is?”

Bofur scowled. No. He did not want to do that. Nor did he want to walk away. Just in case the last ten hours of steady breathing had all been a ploy and Nori was about to need someone nearby to thwack Óin with a stick.

“Up,” Dwalin insisted, “You haven’t moved an inch. Ori’ll watch him.”

“But I--”

“Ori’ll watch his brother.”

Bofur allowed himself to be pushed out the door of the chamber they had claimed, while Ori settled in to watch their injured party. As he glanced back, he saw Ori check that Nori was breathing.

It loosened something, freed it, to know it wasn’t just him. Healers didn’t always want to tell folk that something worse was coming. They liked to let a group adjust to the notion before telling them that the real news was worse. It sounded like something that elves would do, sneaking about like that. Óin-- there was no guessing what Óin would think would be a good decision. Subtlety had gone down the shaft around the time his hearing went, but that wouldn’t stop him from being a damn fine liar.

By the time they had walked a few minutes, Bofur was itching to get back to Nori. Consolation for all this heartache -- if he pulled through -- was the fact that he was now fair swimming in gold. He’d have the best of healers and and homes and ale. Free or not, he’d always have it to hand. Nori could buy and sell elven healers as he needed. After they sorted this middle bit out.

They’d start counting the gold in the coming days. After they got a gate put together for a bit of safety. That did need to come down as a priority. Then they could start in on the gold.

Bofur was starting to smile again, and nodded to Dwalin while he waited.

Dwalin didn’t say a word as he ducked his head into the last room in the hallway to check for Fíli, or Freya.

Bofur was leaving him to it.

It was nothing about being prudish, they’d all stripped down to unders at one point or another in the quest, and no one had parts he’d not seen before; however, he’d seen Freya’s throwing arm, and wasn’t inclined to be on the receiving end of it if she took offense to an interruption.

They looped back around, Dwalin forced him to keep walking, and resumed their casual search in the opposite direction.

Being thoroughly dead didn’t stop Smaug from sending a shiver down Bofur’s spine.

Hard to do otherwise when staring at a dragon. Still left him a bit slackjawed and sputtery as he tried not to follow through on the impulse to run the other direction. That was just a properly sensible instinct. Still. The sight shocked a bit of scale into his head. They’d done it. They had set out from Ered Luin to reclaim a mountain. They had thought the dragon dead. Then knew it wasn’t, and Bofur had figured it would be wise to drink the best ale he could find while they journeyed because it wasn’t likely he’d be around after.

Instead.

Well, instead, Kíli happened.

Nori saved a life, Bilbo shouted, Kíli fired, Smaug died. Easy as that.

Nori never got called self sacrificing. Not ever. Thief, sneak, bastard, bit of a whore, right and proper prick, not to mention several things Nori’d listed about himself that had made Bofur want to crawl into his hat to hide from how hurtful they were. But Nori had tackled Frey when she went all woobly and dazed, and saved her life.

Bofur was going to have to add idiot to his running list of descriptions for that damnable dwarf.

He wasn’t sure if he was angrier at Nori or at Smaug. And it was probably best not to let anyone know that it was up for debate.

“He’s fine.” Dwalin interrupted.

“An how d’ya know that? Haven’t found our prince yet.”

“Nori is fine. Nori. The one you’re standing there mooning over. He’s fine.” Bofur turned. “He will be, then. Got Óin and an elf taking care of him. He’s gonna be fine.”

“So they say.”

“No reason to think not.”

“Mmmmm. I have seen worse.” Bofur allowed after a breath.

“So’ve I.”

“Mushroom ale and a mine shaft.”

“Azanulbizar.”

“Oy, I thought -- weren’t ya were trying cheer me up a bit?”

Dwalin bobbed his head with a smirk and turned to keep walking. “Wouldn’t have… but… yeah. Don’t think he’d have gone outside, but we ought ta have a look.”

They didn’t have to go another five steps. They didn’t go outside. No need.

At first he only saw a brown coat and enough blonde to confirm that it was their wayward princeling. Not that he could sort out why the lad would want to have a nap sitting against a pile of rubble and directly beside a dragon’s corpse, in the cold air that drifted through the shattered gate and alone. Then Bofur took another step, and realized what he was actually seeing. Which, conveniently, also explained the why for of the location.

Fíli had their wayward, madcap seer-with-a-death-wish tucked at his side, arms wrapped tight about her, and his nose pressed to the crown of her head. Their legs were tangled together, and the grip she had on his coat was more fearful than restful.

As he watched, she shuddered, tossing her head, caught in some horror of her own mind. Fíli didn’t wake, but ran a gentle hand over her arm until she calmed. When she did, her grip had grown more fierce.

It wasn’t that different from the way they were in Mirkwood.

Not really.

Now though, if he woke them up, they wouldn’t fling themselves away from each other like they used to, pretending they’d not been near the other. Bofur was sure of that just looking at them. Apparently Fíli had successfully talked his way out of trouble. And into something a bit more pleasant for him.

Good for the lad.

There was a bet to pay out.

Good for the Company.

Bofur looked closer at Fíli’s neck, and snorted. There were two bets to pay out.

Very good for Nori and Balin.

If she’d still been three kinds of homicidally angry at Fíli, she wouldn’t be inclined to point the company in the right direction. And if nothing else, Bofur wanted to check in about a few whispers he had made note of in the last months. It’d be grand to ask a some questions about that time she mentioned Thrain. Why she’d talked about the elves. When the orcs she always went on about would be coming back. Where he could buy the best ale with his new wealth.

It would also be nice to know how long it would take Nori to recover.

“Told ya they’d be fine.”

He whispered to Dwalin, set to sneak away again.

Fíli’s eyes cracked open, and provided them a short, rude gesture. It illustrated nicely his wish for them to leave him to his cuddles. They’d retreated halfway over the chamber, following the prince’s command, before Bofur remembered himself. He jogged back, and signed the same check they had taken to using in the forest when they needed to not catch her notice. He hadn’t thought to make sure she was well, he’d just confirmed they were alive.

Bofur probably needed to get a bit of sleep.

Annoyed at his return, Fíli answered anyway; they needed to keep a closer eye on her, but that she was mostly well.

Good enough to be getting on with.

He wasn’t going to interrupt whatever they had planned.

They were cozy and dozing and not dead. If they wanted to stay in the chill, that’d be their choice. Bofur was getting itchy again, needing to check that Dwalin hadn’t been the start of a plot to keep him out of the room when Nori passed.

He held onto enough sense beneath his apparent exhaustion to notice that Dwalin was headed back toward Fíli. Bofur caught Dwalin by the arm, and yanked him away. Too many hours watching Nori had made him sluggish. He’d feel better once he made sure all was well. And after he’d taken a better nap.

 

* * *

 

If he could ignore his feet, Bilbo was probably as content as a hobbit could be.

Well, and ignore his ribs. And how hungry he was. And the cold. And also the exhaustion, the lack of privacy, the smell, the bizarre cast of the light, Bombur’s snoring, the whiff of blood in the air, and the pervading sense that he was within a tomb.

But other than that, Bilbo was entirely content.

Due, it had to be said, quite entirely to the dwarf he was curled into. Thorin had accepted nothing less than Bilbo snuggling in his lap like a cat, and Bilbo didn’t want to argue. When he had woken, Thorin had the Arkenstone hidden between them, and by the way he kept shifting his gaze, the last day had been too much to process neatly.

That was understandable. Bilbo felt a bit like he had a head cold starting. Nothing quite felt like it had really happened. The dragon had fallen to Kíli. Erebor had been reclaimed. The Arkenstone had been recovered. Thorin was the King he had always been intended to be.

Not to mention the whirl of emotional distress that Bilbo’s -- admittedly risky, but undeniably triumphant -- decisions had provoked. Successful, yes, but very dangerous. Some might have even called it suicidal. It turned out, most of the company was in line with Thorin’s belief that Freya had been at fault for their vanishing into the night. They also harbored the belief that she was happily throwing herself into danger without a care to it killing her.

They weren’t pleased, but nor were they doing much to dissuade her from that.

He would need to watch her more closely in the future. She had begged him to use his ring and go. She had run further into the mountain, rather than toward the tunnel. On the other hand, she had also been a terror about them both staying quiet and hidden as they travelled.

Further information. That was the order of the day.

Once he got up.

Which was not happening anytime soon.

Even awake, there was something restorative in sitting beside Thorin. As if the great lump of a dwarf radiated light and Bilbo was a flower. Hobbits knew flowers needed light. So Bilbo snuggled yet closer, smiling when Thorin turned his head to press a kiss against his brow. Bilbo kept his bandaged feet over Thorin’s legs so they would not rub against the stone floor. His ribs were aching, but not too badly if he kept his breathing shallow. His head was heavy, and he knew there was a headache waiting to pounce.

Rather than deal with any of that, he let his hand join Thorin’s, where it was tracing patterns over the glimmer of the arkenstone.

A large white stone indeed.

They could have mentioned that it glowed.

That seemed like an important description to have.

His dwarves could be so useless at times.

If he hadn’t scampered off with Frey, there was no chance that Fíli would have let her go inside. The boy was infatuated, and guilt-plagued worse than his uncle. And, if she hadn’t been there, Bilbo wouldn’t have known what he was looking for. Nor would he have put on the mithril that Thorin now insisted Bilbo wear constantly.  

Considering that it had saved his life hours after Frey had handed it to him, he wasn’t inclined to disobey in general. He was not willing to wear it while he bathed though. And the next time he had a chance to drag Thorin off and ravish a king -- just for the bragging rights -- he’d take it off then too.

That was a ways off yet.

Their fingers glanced against each other, but it was the stone they were studying. It was intoxicating. Hardly a wonder that the dwarves revered it. Smoother than glass and flickering with all a rainbow’s colors, it was a marvel.

Without their noticing, time passed as they were admiring the rock. Enough time that Óin woke to dose Nori with more medicine. That prompted Bilbo up, hobbling on the outer edges of his soles to reach the bench and claim a bag of food. The stone was prettier while he was eating, and Thorin kissed him again over his dedication to breakfast. Freya and Fíli stumbled inside an hour or so later, while Bilbo nibbled at waybread. Scarcely aware of anything but their goal, and leaning into each other when they lost their balance, they found the first corner of floor they could. Fíli slid down the wall, already close to unconscious once more. Frey dropped a blanket on him, and sat down just out of his reach.

Bilbo saw the confusion tighten on the prince’s brow, and watched him move closer until he had her against his side again.

Thorin frowned at the behavior, but said nothing.

If he did, Bilbo would pelt him with whatever came to hand. He had gone through too much to tolerate that kind of nonsense. With a headache starting to pound, he wasn’t in a mood to be patient with Thorin’s famous mistrust.

Lectures on discretion could wait until after the air had stopped tasting like disaster and despair.

Probably around the time Nori woke up.

Not that he had so much as shifted. Nori breathed, but nothing more.

Bilbo watched Bofur succumb to his own exhaustion and drop to sleep. Kíli prodded him into lying down, and took care that he was in a place where he could see Nori as soon as he opened his eyes. Tauriel checked the wound again.

It was thoroughly unsettling how still he was beneath her. Nori was rarely half that stationary. Another dragon could march into the room, and Nori wouldn’t know it was happening.

Then he’d be eaten.

It was nice to see everyone so supportive, though. Bilbo had to acknowledge that at least some of those that had developed attachments to each other since the whole mess of a quest began had demonstrated the sense to freely admit that they were courting, or entangled, or whatever Freya and Fíli would call that ludicrous mess. Thorin remained inscrutable, and close lipped, and no matter the message conveyed in their actions during the last days, nor what Frey had implied she heard in Laketown, Bilbo wasn’t sure what was happening.

As if he ever was.

He tried to think through the clouds in his head.

There had been a moment or two, surely. At some point, the world had made sense. Thinking back though, nothing came to mind.

As far as Bilbo knew, he had been out of his depth since Gandalf interrupted a very fine pipe of weed.

Those that were awake were softly talking through plans, first of which was defense of the mountain, rather than obtaining stores. Then came the protection of the treasury. Then came alerting the Blue Mountains. Then the Iron Hills. Then, after all of that, they mentioned the need to eat something more interesting that waybread and porridge.

Dwarves.

Bilbo let himself be coddled. Thorin kept him in his lap as he talked in a murmur of their next course. Bifur and Dori were sent to the front gate with Ori to look at what could be done about creating a wall, and to start a plan for disposing of the body. The memory returned in a flash, as memories sometimes did; Bilbo smiled widely to think of his mother sitting in the wildflowers looking down at the Brandywine, telling Bilbo long rambling tales about the dragons of old, and how they came to be, and how they came to end, and the fuss that dragonslayers had to face to be rid of the body when a dragon had the indecency to die on land near people.

Before Bilbo could mention his mother, Ori indignantly explained that burning a dragon’s corpse would prove poisonous to anyone inside the mountain and anyone near the outside of the mountain.

Ori was a good lad. Belladonna would have told him to be bolder, but she then would have made him whatever treats he asked for. Bilbo needed to bake something. Soon. He’d been too long without a proper tea. He needed to remedy that, and introduce the dwarves to the sensible comfort of seven meals. Sometimes eight. He may need to institute nine until he had banished the horrid thinness from Thorin and the princes. They weren’t unhealthy per se, but there was just something so disturbing about them looking like they hadn’t anything but muscle. Strength was all well and good, but he wanted them to look happy. To be happy.

Bombur was sent with Dori to see about the oil lamps while Bilbo’s mind wandered. Once, enormous lamps lit the halls of Erebor past the dull glow of green, into something like sunlight. If there were any left, it would a vast improvement.

Bilbo did rather miss sunlight. And his garden. Of course, he was convinced that a single comment would see Thorin building him a garden with his own bare hands. The confounded dwarf was struck dumb in response to the Arkenstone. It was all to the best that Bilbo had no malicious intent.

Unless a desire for a bed and a bath counted as such. Which they did not. That was good living. Nothing more.

Dwalin was sent with Balin to fetch back a few things that had been left in the tunnel when the company’s plans had escalated from rushed travelling to breakneck sprinting. That included Bilbo and Frey’s packs, which had apparently been carried down the tunnel until they heard Bilbo running toward them.

Tauriel and Óin would not leave Nori.

Everyone else was asleep. Either again, having had a quick, boring snack, or still.

“You made me king.”

Bilbo grinned, hoping it was more fondness than bragging on his face, and tilted back so he could have a decent look at Thorin’s too-handsome, still-dirty, face.

“All I did was bring you a present. Call it a birthday present if you like. I never got you one, and I don’t even know where we were when my birthday passed. Sometime while we were in that dungeon I suppose, since Durin’s day has come and gone and that would be after mine.

“But I, well, you see, I have to disagree. I didn’t make you king. Nothing of the kind.” Thorin had carried him to the dwarf height bench at some point. While his mind was thinking about what to call the ninth meal, no doubt. So, his feet were off the ground, and he could comfortably turn to look at his dwarf, who had snuck closer to his side with open love visible in every angle of his face. Thorin sat, waiting a little impatiently, and very tenderly, for Bilbo to continue. “All I did was give you that rock. You were already a King.”

It reappeared from his coat, like Thorin could not believe he truly held it. When it vanished into the fur again, Thorin’s face fell.

“There is work to do, and I must stay focused on what matters. We must close the gate, and dispose of the worm. Ori has done research on the subject, and will offer what advice he can. If Bard holds to his word, we will be supplied, but not well. The work will be difficult, and the area hostile. Rumors will spread, and we are already warned that the filth will return to challenge us. Our hearts may be loyal but our hands are too few--”

“Thorin.” All it took was a hand on the dwarf’s to make him stop while the rant was building.  

What he had told Thorin was true. Smaug’s words were a murmur in the back of his mind, a constant threat of what the stone would do to the King that Bilbo had chosen to follow, and to love. Smaug had told him that the stone would be Thorin’s destruction. Frey had long ago intimated the same to Thorin. But it was Thorin -- stubborn, intractable, immovable, incredible Thorin -- and if Bilbo had not driven the dwarf to murderous rage yet with his flirting and backtalk, nothing would manage it.

This behavior was understandable.

He was still in shock from the dragon’s death.

He was still Thorin.

Bilbo simply had to believe in that.

He kissed Thorin in the quasi privacy of a room collectively asleep, and began asking specific questions about what was necessary and what was simply desirable. The list was longer, the scale was grander, but it was hardly all that different from a list to reawaken a smial after winter ended. Truly, with the feeling that he was catching a cold growing worse, he could have been back in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, talking through the plans for spring with the Gamgees. Broken down into simple things, classified, categorized, prioritized, Bilbo brought the monolithic terror of restoring the mountain down to something manageable. It was still a monstrously large task, but a garden was cleared one weed at a time. So too would Erebor be.

The largest challenge had already been surmounted.

Thorin must have done similar before, and once reminded of the good practice, needed less and less prodding to keep him on track.

In time, the others returned to report, and Bilbo couldn’t find the will to do more than observe.

No one was visible from the gates. They had shifted enough stone to create a low barricade. Ori wanted to investigate the long tapped mine shafts as a disposal option for Smaug’s body. Most of the lamps were broken or stolen from their hangers. The few they found still usable had been brought back, and enlivened the chamber.

The cheer that rose woke everyone but Nori.

Freya stood, took a single step, and collapsed. Unused to all that running, and then asleep for too long, she had locked up her muscles. Definitely not a dwarf. They laughed long at Tauriel’s diagnosis. Except for the elder prince, who gripped her arm a bit tighter than necessary while he helped her walk to sit at a bench.

Bilbo leaned into Thorin again, feeling sleep creep around him.

Dwalin and Balin returned with packs and water and a cookpot.

There would be food when he woke, and Bilbo let the sound of the company lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Two days after Durin’s Day, a length of time that seemed surreal as they discussed options for tons of corpse to be removed, Bilbo was able to walk without too much pain.

Nori still slept.

Therefore, the company remained subdued and tense.

Skittish.

Anxious.

Miserable.

Eating small meals and finding little cheer.

Thorin ordered a watch kept at the gate until they could find a way to build a true defense.

Three days after Durin’s Day, Nori was allowed to wake, bleary and confused, so they could test the reaction of his legs. He passed, and was put back to sleep. Óin admitted that Frey’s panicked warbling about injuries had caused him to bring a very particular set of supplies with him. Thorin worried harder at that, trying to guess if she had known it would be Nori, or if she had thought of another’s safety. He worked himself to exhaustion, repeating a mantra about things of importance whenever he held Bilbo.

It was not a comfort.

Each time he heard it, he was reminded of Smaug and the stone and Freya’s concerns. Then Thorin would smile at him like the whole wealth of Arda was nothing in comparison. He never looked at the gold like that. He looked at the gold, and listed the areas of the mountain to be restored.

He looked at his nephews and planned crowns.

He looked at the company and whispered to Bilbo about Court positions, and how the company could be trusted, could be believed, could be listened to when dwarves that had been strewn across Arda returned to their home.

Then he would smile again.

Four days after Durin’s Day, while Ori sat on watch, the alarm was raised, and dwarves rushed to the front of the mountain.

 

* * *

 

The elf pranced his way up the body of Smaug, starting at the head that still stuck out between the stones of their wall, and pausing to stare down at it when he reached the high point between his wings. His disgust was apparent from twenty steps away. So was his curiosity.

Kíli flashed a glance upwards at Tauriel; she was rigid. That wasn’t too surprising since she often was skittish or awkward or strange  -- or all three at once, in a great big mess, but that normally happened when he said anything sentimental. In the face of danger and chaos, she was fiery.

Just like her hair.

He was going to write the best poetry about her.

Later.

For now, he needed to know what was happening.

“Tauriel? I never thought to ask. Did you think to…. Tauriel, you did-- That-- I mean to say -- you told your King that you were leaving, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

Elven reaction was a subdued thing, but even for an outsider it was apparent that she had not left on good terms. Right. What that story would play out to be, he didn’t know, but it was enough for Kíli to stand a little straighter. The conversation was unlikely to run smoothly. Tact and nuance were not his strength, and the ability to fire an arrow would not impress an elf of Mirkwood.

Fíli glanced to him, and copied the protective stance without needing an explanation. It was nice to have his brother supporting him again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kíli saw several others mimicking them. Very encouraging for when he eventually told them he planned to keep her nearby forever and ever. Side effect of having helped slay a dragon: they couldn’t really refute his choice. It would be a wonderful day, and he was already designing beads, and necklaces, and bangles, and a delicate circlet for her to wear. Maybe with moonstones. Or fire opals. Or both.

However, they had to get through whatever this conversation was going to be. That meant he needed to be more clear-headed than he had been. It was hard not to be floating with delight in the face of what he had achieved. He had a morning to musings about the gifts he could give with his portion of the treasure. Half a night to the thought of his mother’s reaction when she heard the news. An entire afternoon to the idea that he would never want for anything again. Their great victory had been a distraction. It had to be pushed to the side for now.

Because Tauriel mattered more, and she needed him.

Kíli was willing to say that he had seen the elf before. Since he was blond, that meant it had to have been in Mirkwood. Problem being that Kíli couldn’t recall if he was someone that mattered, or if he was just one of the random guards. Maybe he was the one that Kíli tried to bite? Or the grumbly one that had brought him a new spoon even when Kíli lobbed his seventh off the edge beyond his cell?

Wasn’t important. He needed to focus.

Too tall, as grumpy as Thorin ever was, and carrying signs of a recent fight, the elf stopped a few steps from Kíli.

No. A few steps from Tauriel.

From whom his judgey glare didn’t shift.

For all that his entry had been a prancing and obnoxious thing, the elf wasn’t some swooning creature like the musicians in Rivendell. He was a fighter, and clearly so.

“Mae govannen.”

Being one of the only phrases Kíli knew, he was pleased with the elf’s manners. For a moment.

“Mae govannen, mell-- heruamin.” She corrected herself and nodded her head.

“Mankoi naa lle sinome?”

“Why are you?” Tauriel’s voice clicked up to distrust, and Kíli tensed.

“Lle auta yeste'. Mankoi naa lle sinome yassen Naugrim?”

Bilbo, standing awkwardly at Thorin’s side, glared.

Kíli knew the word for dwarves. Coupled with the disgusted tone, and Bilbo’s outrage, it told him as much as he needed to know.

“Her business is her own,” Kíli declared, “And though the dragon has fallen, this kingdom has offered you no welcome. Just as you have offered no courtesy.”

Dwalin chuckled, but every other reaction was raw support.

“Her business, dwarf, is in the protection of Eryn Galen, and the lands around it.”

“Did you not think a dragon a threat to our home?” There was the fire in her.

“Threats in the distance must be faced after the threats at our door.”

“Should your father’s decrees hold, we will content ourselves with an ever smaller corner of the world until we driven out or destroyed. I am charged with the defense of the forest and our people, and chose to aid this company in their efforts to remove our greatest threat.”

“And in doing so Tauriel, you failed to stop a more direct attack.”

“How do you mean?”

“A company of orcs crossed into our lands while our people feasted in celebration, unaware that the captain of the guard was no longer looking to their safety.”

“Eryn Galen is unassailable.” The elf gave her no response, holding her eye with an intensity that eventually broke her defiance, “Ú-agoren…”

“Nelchaenen tol. Odog ‘gwanna.” A breath rippled through her at the declaration. “We thought it was eight, but when you were not found…”

“You came for me, mellonin?” She was small then, lost, and holding to a thread of hope Kíli did not grasp. He saw her shrink down into something fundamentally unlike who he knew her to be, and he consciously shook himself, putting all of his focus onto the moment.

The elf, who still hadn’t bothered to introduce himself and show some manners, nodded to her question. Kíli was ready to beg Bilbo to translate what had just been said. The bits he had weren’t enough. It seemed important.

They were interrupted by a squawk like a goat mid-labor.

“ _Sonofabitch_!” Frey was hobbling worse than before, but she blazed a warpath down the hall. No one in the company could quite restrain their smirks at the way the elf startled. Freya confusing elves would never stop being funny to them. They needed to arrange for more of that once the mountain was up and running. “No. No. No. _Absolutelyfuckingnot. Nopenothappening._ You _areearlyandno. Sorrymisterpranceypants_ you _havetogetthehellandgoneoutofthismountain._ ”

She dodged away from Fíli’s automatic attempt to keep her out of danger.

Tauriel finally looked down to Kíli, and the heartbreak was staggering. Her jaw was too stiff for the way her eyes glistened with restrained tears. Guilt and reproach and hatred were overwhelming. He watched, waiting for her emerge from it, brilliant and bold and undefeatable. Nothing came, and she broke contact, letting her eyes fall shut to hide from him.

When he tried to catch her hands, she flinched away.

Not knowing what else to do, Kíli let her, and watched Freya as she closed the last of the distance to the elf, flapping her arms.

“ _Out_ you _triscuitsuckingtwat. Gothefuckaway. Getout. Nowaythishelpsthings. Yourenotsupposedtobehere. Yet. Actually:atall. Anddefinitelynotearly. Whyare_ you _here_ Legolas?” The elf jerked, Bofur snickered, and they all pinned the name to him. Frey was never wrong.

“How does she know that?” He was shocked, but they anticipated it. Everyone always asked.

“She is a seer.” Today it was Balin that answered, sounding almost proud.

“ _Ohshuthegoddamnfuckupaboutthatwould_ you _?_ I _knowthatword. And_ you _aresoveryverywrong._ Legolas _showingupjustprovesthat_.”

“She speaks in nonsense.” Legolas spun back to Tauriel, dismissing the promise of prophecy. “Tauriel, they were last seen travelling north. They rode wargs. Tolo a nin. Le chuion methad a nin. Hen ab-gerif, tolo mâr.”

“Hey! _Stopthat_. I _dontremembermuchof_ Sindarin _but_ I _rememberthatword_. Kíli _isherhomenow_. _MyfavoriteLotRficwascalled_ már. Kíli is mâr for Tauriel. _Lookatthepairofthem! Smilinglikedorks_. _Okaynotrightnowtheyarent_.” Tauriel’s face fell further at Frey’s words, and Kíli was only half listening as Legolas replied.

“What do you claim to know, seer?”

“One. I am Freya. Two. You are for want dead orcs. North for dead orcs. Is bad plan, Legolas.”

Damn any of the company that was watching. Kíli managed to take one of Tauriel’s hands without her yanking it away, and held like a rock in a storm, waiting for her to open her eyes again.

“Not much of a seer as I said all this before.”

“You are for go north. Are for to see -- _buggerwhatstheword_ \-- Bilbo: what word is for orcs and orcs and many orcs?”

“Army?”

“ _Fuck_ I _diditagain_. I _askbutnotliketheanswermakessense_. _Whateveritworksforme_. Legolas. You are go north for to see army of orc. And goblin. Goblins. _Andfuckallelse_. _Itsnothelpful_. _Alreadyknowaboutit_.”

Tauriel blinked away tears when she finally looked at Kíli. Not a kindness, not a tender moment. She blinked as if each time it would push away weakness, until there would be nothing to expose her to danger. The sheer ferocity of her intent was inspiring. Whatever she determined to do, she did.

“When is the army to arrive, Freya?” Thorin had joined the others in their conversation.

“ _Ohshit. Ummmmm…._ I _cantjustsayNovembercan_  Ii _Thatwontmakesenseto_ you _. Okayitwassomewhereinthetwenties._ Durin’s _daywasinoctober? Maybe? Sothatmakesitsixweeks? Ish? Whichisfortydays?_ ”

“Freya.”

“ _PullthestickoutofyourbuttImcountinghere. Waitbuteverythingisdifferentnow._ Azog. Bolg. _Assholestradedplaces. Sodotheyevenneedtogonorth?_ ”

Kíli kept ahold of Tauriel, gently rubbing his thumb over her knuckles, and not considering in depth what could have caused her reaction. He would hear all about it later, he was sure. For now, what mattered was being there for her.

“ _Nopefuckit_. I not know small things for this. I am saw army of orc. From north.”

“My plan remains the wisest course. Further intelligence is needed. Tauriel and I will travel north and return with a message to our kin.”

“ _Hangonwaitno_.”

“To your kin?”

“We’re the ones being hunted, ya pretty little elfling.”

“But elves are the ones who have fallen to this pack.” Legolas silenced the rising din with the clarity of his declaration.

There was no chance Kíli could look away from her after that. She nodded confirmation of what had been said, aware he spoke almost no Sindarin, and had not understood them earlier.

The captain of the Mirkwood guard had left her post in the elven kingdom, and left them open to an attack. While she came to his aid, concerned for him and his brother, her people had died. Kíli should have been thinking clearly enough when she arrived to tell her that there had been no guards on the river gate, nor on the shore. He should have thought about the implication and warned her. He knew he should have instead of marvelling at her arrival.

Not that it would matter. She was like his kin in that. He could see her accepting the guilt of her actions without shrinking from it.

His amad was going to adore her.

There was talking again from the others. It didn’t matter.

He kept watching her.

She smiled, though it did not clear her eyes.

“King Thorin?” Tauriel called, “I will travel with my kin to the north to learn what I can of the intention of these orcs. Once we have found that, we will return to our people to warn them, such that they might prepare if a force is behind us. On our way to the forest, we will return to Erebor, to pass the same warning to you.”

She did not bother to phrase it as a question.

“Prince Legolas will be happy to answer your concerns, and may have requests should you feel inclined to grant them.”

As the others fell into chatter and bickering again -- none louder than Frey’s livid cursing -- Tauriel turned back to Kíli.

She held out the runestone, trying to hide it from the sight of the others. She failed in that. If they wanted to see, they would. They all knew what it was, how important it was to him, and what her holding it would imply. As if they had not already been aware.

Kíli knew that his brother was passing judgement. He knew that the others would not understand why. He knew that with the dragon dead, rumors would flit through the air, and the mountain would need to be defended.

He knew that because he was second in line to the now reclaimed throne of Erebor and he was not the fool for which he was regularly mistaken. By all rights, he ought to remain in Erebor, to assist. Help. Support the others and possibly build a thick wall to protect their home. Over the dragon’s head if they could not cut through the scales in time.. Then wait for reinforcements and caravans of family and settlers.

It would be important for him to the be there to greet them. He was the dragonslayer. It was expected.

It was terrifying.

He wanted to hide back in the quiet whispers of hope and triumph and think of the greater days to come rather than the risk in the shadows. He wanted to beg Tauriel to stay with him where they would be safe, and bring her every jewel and treasure she would deign to wear, until they both glimmered under more wealth than the whole of Ered Luin had in their coffers.

“Kíli,” she dropped her voice low, “Davo annin gi meriad.... Le melin.” He froze, and she continued before he could interrupt. “You know what it means.”

Yes. He did.

He needed to stay in Erebor.

But Tauriel had spent nights telling him stories of the world beyond his people, beyond the mountains where they made their homes. She had risked her future to allow him hope, and had told him how she dreaded the mounting danger over the horizon. She had confessed all of her fear, and then whispered that she would never turn away from what needed to be done, even if she shook at the thought of doing so.

Like she had done moments earlier.

Fear and want would never determine her course. A moral fortitude that made his own feeble values pale guided her.

Evil had come into her home and tried to destroy it. She had not been there to help. She had been with him, with his family, helping to protect them, because she could see past the ancient anger and into what needed to be done.

There was nothing he could say to stop her going north.

She had followed them because she knew the dragon had to be destroyed.

There was nothing in Kíli’s mind past the sight of her, and his own hand reaching out toward the bit of polished rock.

Tauriel didn’t falter in her faith. Not ever.

So.

Neither would he.

That at least was impeccably clear in his mind.

Moving slowly enough that he felt her hand tremor, he brushed his fingers over the runes etched in the deep blue stone. With his other hand, he closed her fingers, keeping it pressed tight against her palm, and smiled. He needed poetry to convey everything he wanted to praise about her.

Doing it poorly would cheapen the moment, and all that he had written thus far didn't even do justice to her hair. It wasn’t enough. He didn’t have a way to tell her everything yet.

So he smiled, and hoped she understood.

“You would…” Her voice was tremulously soft.

“Of course I would. I will, unless you tell me not to.”

Her rigid composure melted. It trailed from shock to damp-eyed fondness and resolved into confidence. An absolute assurance of her plan. Kíli agreed. They had killed a dragon. A few weeks of scouting for the path and plans of a small company of orcs would be easy.

And he would be with her, so it would be bliss.  

He was smiling like a fool. It didn’t matter.

“Nadad.”

Kíli finally looked away at that call. Fíli watched him from the middle of the mounting tension in the larger conversation. There was a question in the tilt of his head, and condemnation in the tension around his eyes and mouth.

He and Fíli had always understood each other with a few glances. Kíli hid nothing as he stared back. This felt right, and he was willing to argue, and explain the overwhelming urge if necessary.

It wasn’t.

It hadn’t changed from the time they were wee little things, stealing their adad’s tools and hiding them in impossible places as a game. Going on daring missions to find the source of delicious smells in the lower city. Sneaking off to the lake when the future became too much. Facing down the hardest days after they lost their Adad. They could look across a room and know the story the other needed told, or the task they needed help with, or the fear they had to confront, or, the joy that they had found.

Fíli acquiesced unhappily, but immediately acted, slipping into the mantle of the crown prince. “Uzbadê, we must know what is happening with the orcs. When they will come, and in what numbers. Freya may yet learn more, but we must have certainty.”

“The elves will return and report.”

“They will need aid.”

“They can provide for their own.”

From his position at Thorin’s side, Bilbo snorted.

“Uncle.” Fíli stared pointedly, turned to Smaug’s body, and then turned back, head tilting to the opposite side, and face turning intractable. Kíli couldn’t make this argument. He couldn’t even speak. It would be best received from another. Anything he said would make Fíli’s task infinitely harder. “The elves -- Tauriel -- helped to kill Smaug. Prince Legolas and the elves of Mirkwood helped to disperse the orcs that have hunted us for months. These orcs pursue the line of Durin, and we cannot allow these two to take our burden for us without offering aid.”

It was a low blow, but effective. Thorin wilted into uncertainty, and Balin made an approving noise.

“Kíli will travel with them.” Fíli announced it with the weight of a legal decree.

On any other day, Kíli would have snickered at the poleaxed look that whipped toward him; It was not a day for that. He had to remain defiant, but not insulting, so restrained himself, and held his king’s eye. “You will not talk me out of this. A Durin does not run from a fight. And this is our fight.”

His uncle glowered. It was familiarity that revealed the horror and doubt beneath the stern expression, and Kíli gave him time to make a decision. Painful as it was for them both, he clung to the moment, and waited.

“You will not confront them if you find them.” Thorin ordered at last.

“Of course not, there’s only three of us.”

“You once -- you challenged this same group before with only two.” Kíli flushed, hiding the guilt, and recalling the feel of a warg’s bite. That had also been a low blow; Tauriel would want to hear that story in truth, not the rough version he had previously told. “Three will be no improvement over your -- your near -- on that outcome.”

“Yes, I know. But we killed a dragon, we can handle a few orcs.”

“You _uselesscinnamonroll._ I _hate_ you _sodamnmuch_. _Thisissomuchhardereverygodforsakenday._ ”

There must have been a second conversation happening in iglishmek where he couldn’t see it. Bifur walked back into the chamber with Kíli’s packs, visibly restuffed with food and supplies for hasty travel.

“Bamarniki jalasagnigîn.” Bifur set them beside their feet. He had also brought Tauriel’s small bag. He smiled up at her, and bowed.

There was a strange hour passed with the dwarves attempting to threaten the elf, Legolas disregarding it, and stuttered offers to travel with them. All of which Kíli declined. Nori could have kept up, but only remained awake for minutes at a time, and wasn’t presently. Fíli could, but Thorin had torn himself apart over one of them going, so both would be impossible. Ori wouldn’t leave his brother, and was the only other hand for a ranged weapon. The rest were better fit to defend Erebor.

Besides, it was to be a stealthy little trip, the fewer on it, the better. He did want them around him, even if it meant being outside of the mountain, but this was the right choice.

Thorin embraced him, silent and conflicted, invoking the vows he had extracted at the start of the journey.

Fíli threatened him with a mention of their amad, then embraced him. Reconcile, full reconcile with conversation and apologies and all else that was needed, would have to wait for his return. They were friends again though, and that would be enough.

Frey lost her temper with being ignored. She grabbed Legolas by the hair to drag him to her height so she could deliver a warning that made the already pale elf turn pasty and gape at her. She said nothing else.

They lost time to standing about, uncomfortable and doubting their course, beside the proof of their last triumph. Kíli still heard the possibility of what could go wrong. He grated against something out of sight that was too slippery for him to identify. He gave the company a confident smirk as he departed, and tried to let it be true as he turned to leave.  

Legolas had brought a second horse from Laketown after hearing that Tauriel lived, and was travelling with dwarves. They were tied to a bit of debris across the bridge.

The world was far brighter than his eyes remembered the world being.

An effect of felling the last dragon in Middle Earth; It truly was a brighter place. The sparkle in Tauriel’s eye was testament to that. He climbed up behind her with assistance, to ride away from the home he had only just found.

And already wanted to return to.

Elves rode quickly, even on aged horses, and they soon passed out of sight of the broken gate.

Maybe it was distance from the dragon and the memories attached to it. Maybe it was his eternally un-dwarven love of the open sky. Maybe it was that he was pressed against Taur and could nuzzle into her back to make her laugh, but with every step the horses took, Kíli grew healthier, and more himself. A murky haze cleared from his mind, and his determination resolved. His wits reemerged, and his aspirations recentered.

With every thundering fall of the horses’ hooves, Kíli returned to the dwarf he wanted to be.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sindarin**  
>  Mae govannen : Well Met  
> Heruamin : my lord  
> Mankoi naa lle sinome : Why are you here?  
> Lle auta yeste' : You go first  
> Mankoi naa lle sinome yassen Naugrim : Why are you here with dwarves?  
> Ú-agoren : I didn't....  
> Nelchaenen tol. : Thirty came.  
> Odog ‘gwanna. : Seven were lost.  
> Mellonin : My friend  
> Tolo a nin. : Come with me.  
> Le chuion methad a nin. : Fight them with me.  
> Hen ab-gerif, tolo mâr. : After, come home.  
> Davo annin gi meriad. Le melin. : Let me protect you. I love you
> 
>  **Khuzdul**  
>  Bamarniki jalasagnigîn : I assumed you’d be going at once
> 
>  
> 
> See what I mean about too much language? It's too much, but the bloody elves wouldn't shut up. AND, my Sindarin isn't nearly as strong as my Khuzdul. Annoying.  
> Now. I'll just be sitting here waiting to see if I played this too close to the chest, or if you're about to hate me more than you ever have before. This too ages to write to a point where I felt it managed to actually capture the feeling I was after. Feel free to let me know if you're mad. I flail like Charlotte La Bouf and clutch at my phone when I get comments, and then I get all giddy and write you more things. XD


	28. Have Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is easier to believe what you want to be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies. This chapter has been causing me anxieties, I think I finally landed it though.  
> Thank you Thank you Thank you to Mephestopheles for tolerating my incessant whining, and pointing out why I wasn't happy with this chapter before.  
> Not much khuz, but it's on hover and at the end for you.

Frey was going to be sick.

Vomiting, retching, shaking, weeping, sick.

This was worse than she expected. Infinitely, impossibly, entirely, undeniably worse.

A seismic change. Tectonic plates shifting. An earthquake travelling through them and just as much a catastrophe as if the mountain crumbled on top of them.

Goddamn book canon was back with bells on.

Something was pulled out of a pile far beneath her to be cooed and swooned over.

She scrubbed at her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch, and pulled Fíli’s coat tighter. This statue wasn’t meant to be accessible, but Smaug had helpfully knocked down the latticed stone that had separated it from the pathway. That made it easy to walk off the bridge, and curl up in the lap of a carved dwarf on a plinth.

They’d see her if they looked up, but they never did. Not when there was enough gold to fill a stadium twice over. Not when there might be yet another cup or weapon or bit of armor or instrument for them to fawn over.  A gold instrument wouldn’t even sound nice. It’d be all screechy and horrid.

But that was all they did. Sort, and admire, and make happy little sounds over a coin like it wasn’t identical to a thousand others they’d seen that day.

She had known it was going to happen. How could it not? She had changed some things, but, it was goldsickness. Or dragonsickness. Whichever. There was never a chance that she’d get to skip that bit altogether.

Just.

She really hadn’t thought it would be so bad.

That it would be everyone.

Thorin prowled around the perimeter, like he thought that the others would steal away with the treasure if he wasn’t there to protect it. He was quiet, moody-- moodier -- and she caught him staring at her any time they were in the same room.

The others were hardly better. So. Fine. Book canon. Survivable since they’d all break out of it, and she knew that, but she didn’t like the sight of it. They had all stripped out of their travelling clothes, and put on extraordinary furs and coats and armor. She had caught Thorin’s eye and scowled with every ounce of might she had as he lifted the stupid fuzzy robes that PJ had used as a demarcation of crazy. It had been a less crazy day for him. Thorin didn’t put them on, and she celebrated her minute victory.

Then Thorin draped Thror’s furs over Fíli’s shoulders and walked away muttering. When Fíli followed, she rushed to steal the tired smoky-smelling thing he had abandoned, and convinced herself it was warmer than her coat.  

So the coat the boys had given her in Laketown hid in her bag, and she snuck around the darkened corners of Erebor in Fíli’s clothing, trying not to look directly into the madness that had defeated them.

Even Bilbo spent long hours staring at the gold. And wasn’t that just a fan-damn-tastic sign for how it would all end.

Not trusting herself, what with the whole ringlust shtick she had working for her, Frey had tried to avoid touching the gold. Didn’t go well. The Dwarves kept bringing her things. All sorts of things she didn’t want. Then they thanked her. Effusively. Then would come the asking of questions. To which she had no answers. Because no, she didn’t know whether the orcs would come from the north, or from the northwest. She didn’t know how many trolls there would be. She didn’t know if the damned giant worm things would be making a dramatic arrival. She didn’t know if the eagles or Beorn or the elves or the men or the bats, or bloody anything was going to happen like she thought it would. She didn’t even know if or when Gandalf would roll his meddlesome wrinkly rump up to the door.  

So she hid.

And watched as they got worse.

Kíli had gone off into the wild blue yonder with a pair of elves specifically trying to find orcs because he was a bastard and trying to give her a stress induced heart attack. A week later, the dwarves had attempted to build a wall directly over Smaug, without bothering to do anything about him. He was getting crispy. Kinda flaky. Or maybe powdery was the better way to put it?

Whatever the word, it looked toxic.  

The corpse also didn’t have the structural stability to uphold stone for long stretches.

The dwarves had put off construction for a day while they came up with a plan, and in the morning, gone to count treasure, never looking back. They still remembered to have a person sit with Nori, but that was the most she could say for them. That was the last thing they seemed to think clearly about.

Frey was at a loss.

She was one person. And if they took offense to her banning them from entering the treasure horde, there wasn’t going to be anything she could do about it. Fíli would stop them killing her, or throwing her in a cell, or out of the mountain, but she wasn’t inclined to test his reaction time. His arm was still colorful and bruised. Staring at him more often than the others from her perch, she couldn’t tell where he was on the goldlust roller coaster of crazy. If he was. He probably was. She needed to be a realist. All of them were, but she couldn’t stop hoping that fanon was right about him. Poverty and optimism and his father’s blood might keep him from succumbing. That would make her life much easier. And less stressful.

There would also be less fighting back tears.

Earlier, before she climbed onto her statue, Fíli had found her in a hallway, where she was having a mild bout of hysteria, and helped. Sort of helped. He kept her standing. He took his time, holding onto her face with the stupid daft smirk he got whenever he had a plot cooking. He obviously had something in mind since he was smirking worse than ever, and, added to the crease between his eyes as he tried to solve her, it was overwhelming.

Really, it was a mercy when there was finally kissing. That could be overwhelming too, but at least he stopped attacking her with that adorable face.

“What was that for?”

“I like when you smile, Frey.” He carefully used words she understood.

Then he had walked back to the treasury and followed in Thorin’s wake for a full day.

So, evidence was inconclusive. Useless.

He trailed after Thorin wherever the king went, fiddling with the edge of the furs. Fíli would watch as Thorin held onto the raven crown, and Frey would watch him watching.

Thorin… She wasn’t actually trying there. He would go mad, he’d probably do something extra stupid, and it would take Bilbo to draw him back out of it. That was Bilbo’s game, once Bilbo’s head cleared. Thorin already had the Arkenstone, so at least she’d get to skip that palabra. Her game was the same as it had been when she came up with plans while marching across Eriador. Save the boys: save the world.

Except one of them had gone.

And the other hadn’t been clear-headed enough to process her stunted conversational skills last time she tried.

When they asked, and they constantly did, what was wrong, why she looked upset, why she was scared, she gestured vaguely. To a one, the dwarves wrote it off as her being a seer, and left her to it. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Nothing she could do to drag them back out. It would take something explosive, and shy of an advancing army, she was out of ideas.

There was nothing she could do, and if she thought about the fandom again there would be tears, so she looked back to the company.

In the treasury, Bilbo called to Thorin, and produced a pair of extravagant goblets studded over with something sparkly enough she could see it at a distance. Bilbo was distracted since they’d entered the treasury. Not enough that he’d gone completely oblivious, but distracted all the same. If he got any worse, she would be able to slide next to him, pickpocket him, and then bugger the fuck out of the mountain toward greener, less insane pastures. Maybe she could try her luck in the south.

But men would notice, and try to take it from her. Better off with the hobbits. Or alone. Or perhaps she--

“Son of a bitch.” Frey hissed, scrubbing at her eyes again. The dwarven descent into useless would have to continue without her observation. On the bridge, about to retreat to the front of the mountain, she looked back. Her eyes found Bilbo’s hand, playing with something hidden in his pocket. When Thorin stepped next to his hobbit boyfriend and blocked her line of sight, her eyes were stinging and dry.

“Durinultarg,” she added as she forced her head to turn.

If that was the limit of her own sanity, canon would be the least of the dwarves’ troubles.

 

* * *

 

 Stars, as it turned out, were even more beautiful when viewed sitting on a boulder with a loved one nearby and their grumpy liege still brushing down his horse. This was as far North has he had ever been, and it was unlike anything he had seen. There was light dancing in the sky. Just dancing up there like the night sky was running fabric through a river of stars to wash it. Except it cast its own light and the ribbons would wink out of existence and reappear and weave and flow, and…. It was incredible. He had never seen anything more beautiful, and he was willing to admit that it was prettier than Tauriel. Which Kíli felt was an excellent indication that he hadn’t lost his mind.

Still, there was a bit of an echo of that idea slicked through his head. He hadn’t thought about it inside Erebor. He hadn’t thought about it for more than a moment while they were riding that first day. He was too busy being delighted and snuggling closer to her back.

Then they had stopped on the second day, and, in Sindarin, Tauriel and Legolas had argued. He had assumed it was about him, and had that confirmed when both turned to him, appraising his very existence.

He was a dwarf of the line of Durin, and he met their gaze without concern.

Then Tauriel had asked him about Thror, and about gold sickness, and about the curse of the dragon and his uncle’s sanity, and Kíli lost his composure. He spent a day pretending his kin was too strong to ever fall to it. He spent another holding Tauriel’s back and fighting off the truth. The day after, they had climbed off their horses, allowing them the rest that the elves did not necessarily need, and Kíli had pulled Tauriel up onto this rock to stare at the stars, and admit that she was right.

He had abandoned his kin to madness inside that mountain despite the warnings they had heard, and despite their aspirations to greatness. Thorin had been nervous and uncomfortable, holding the arkenstone all hours. The others had been distracted and fractious. He had assumed it to be exhaustion and stress.

Only Fíli had seemed to be his normal self. Guilty and worried, yes, but that was his standard existence in the last months.

His brother was an admirable dwarf, but there was little hope that he could, alone, maintain the safety of all the others. He would stand up to their uncle if need be, he would say what needed to be said. He would take the stand that others shied away from. Freya would help him. The pair had been on good terms when he left with Tauriel. She’d keep him safe. She was mule-headed enough to do it alone if the others faltered.

Oh, and Bilbo.

That was three. Those three could corral the others wherever they needed to go.

Kíli finally answered the question Tauriel had asked as they walked.

“Yes, they are all affected.”

“Do you need to return to them? To help?”

“I -- I think they will recover. I think they’ll be fine.”

“Because of the seer?”

“Her too, but my brother is there.”

She shook her head, softening the words, “Precisely, he is there. He is within that mountain, and he is affected. You admit that you were not yourself while you were in that mountain. I saw the effect on you and the others. I do not know the exact look of the gold sickness that afflicts your kind, but I know that your behavior was changed.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

“I did not --” She squirmed, “I did not think much of it in the first days. Once I did, I did not know how to confirm what I saw. It was not until we departed, and your mind cleared that I believed what Legolas had said to me that first day.” There was a bit of fear in the confession. If she had confronted them, they might have turned on her, hated what she said, distrusted her. Kíli thought he would have been stronger, but the days after the dragon’s fall were a smear of anxiety and anticipation.

So he changed the subject, “Is Legolas still pouting down there?”

She beamed. “He is. Though he could easily take shelter in your recent accomplishment, he has chosen to be outraged.”

“It was just a ground fowl.”

“That he missed with his shot.” She took his hand in hers, happily moving to the more pleasant topic. “It has been near a decade since any but an elf saw him disappointed with his bow.”

“I was just hungry.”

“His pride is wounded.”

“But we got supper.”

“You might do well to miss your next attempt in his presence. He may warm to you for it.”

“I can do that. My kin adores you for what you did. It would be nice to have other elves beside you think nicely of me.”

She laughed, “Do not set your hope too high. My brethren are not inclined to change their opinions with speed. Legolas visited Erebor before it fell.”

There it was again.

After they found the orcs, and turned to bring back information, he would do whatever it took to help Thorin and the others. In the meantime, “Fíli will help the others. He’ll take care of them.”

“You are so sure of him?”

“Yes.”

“You cannot be certain of him.”

“You don’t know him the way I do, Taur, Fíli has always been the dwarf that others looked to for aid. He has always known his duty and put that before personal gain. He has always been the first to sacrifice for the sake of others. Fíli isn’t -- when we were young, I heard every insult about being too much like an elf --”

“You are not an elf.”

“Not in the least, but I’m too thin, and--” he opted not to mention his paltry beard, “and I’m an archer, and--- it was a lot of small things. But that isn’t the point. I heard about it because of how I looked and because I used to sneak out to look at the stars. Fíli heard it from them too, but they told him that he was too free with his purse, that he should value his wealth more, that his ‘indifference to gold was a disgrace’ that was from a Blacklock though, and we’ve never gotten along well with them. Not since they sent that insulting reply to King Thror’s plans at Azanulbizar. I wasn’t born then, but they still tell that story. Maybe we can finally gain their respect back now that we have Azsâlul’abad back.”

“Kíli?”

“That’s the actual name of the Lonely Mountain, but don’t tell Thorin I told you that.”

A warm grin overtook her concern and she squeezed his hand. “Amrâlimê.”

“Don’t tell him I told you that either.” The light from the sky above painted her in pale greens and blues, making her more surreal and her hair more vivid.

They were all hopeful that they would catch the orcs in a few more days. The path pointed toward the grey mountains, as if drawing a line from Laketown to the ruins of Angmar, which was a name steeped in the horror of histories. Then they would turn back, alert both the mountain and the forest of whatever it was they discovered, and begin to make their defense.

All would be well.

When he next entered Erebor, he would be prepared, and would not fall into that mire again. He would help any of the company that needed it. In the meantime, he had to trust that Fíli, his steadfast, unbreakable, just and noble brother, would protect them until he did.

 

* * *

 

There was too much screaming, and no matter how hard she battered herself against what stopped her, she wasn’t fast enough. She was never going to be fast enough, and the hill was too far away. They were going to die, and she was going to fail. The one single thing that had to happen. The only thing that mattered to the world and to the fandom and to her, and she was going to fail. She reached the top in time to crash into Thorin, and watch Fíli fall.

She screamed so loud he never hit the ground.

They were at the gates, charging through, ready to face the enemy and the darkness attacking. All three of Durin’s sons, and badly in need of one of his daughters to see them through the fight, charged with nothing to support them but the belief in their companions’ loyalty. Trolls met them before they reached the orcs. Wargs joined them. The orcs lurched forward to stop a battlefield death and dragged them away to to the commander of the legion that swarmed the mountain.

She watched Thorin’s head bounce, and vomited.

The boys got out of the tower. They had heard what was happening and listened to Bilbo and they hadn’t separated and it was going to be fine. But Bilbo was in the tower, running to try and find them, and even with the ring he left footprints. She followed and she watched as he was captured, hauled up the stairs over an orc’s shoulder, weeping and bleeding and dying.

She collapsed as he fell and heard Thorin’s heart break from across the river.  

They never left the mountain and the orcs slaughtered every creature on the field until there was no one left standing save for a blond elven princeling guarding the fallen bodies of his kin against a wave of enemies. Him, they tortured. The dwarves kept the treasure safe. The orcs never reached it. They never wanted it. They simply collapsed the peak on top of them.

She stood next to Azog with a ring in her fist as the cloud of dust rose higher from the crater that had once been the Lonely Mountain.

She couldn’t run fast enough. Not with a battle around her. She didn’t know what she was doing, and she wasn’t armed, and she wasn’t dressed for it, and the blood was slick beneath her feet, and air was rank, and she wasn’t going to make it in time. There were too many foes, too much to overcome, and she should never have left them. She had known and she had gone, and she had lost them and she was going to lose them. Thorin was on the ice before she reached the top. He was dead before she got to him.

She didn’t start to cry until she saw Bilbo crawling despite the trail of red behind him.

The hills erupted, the orcs appeared, and chaos fell over the plain. She couldn’t abandon Tilda, and had to stay in Dale as the battle escalated. When an arrow found the child, she snapped, hewing her way through bodies like enough blood could bring her back to life.

It didn’t.

She stood above Azog’s corpse, and left the blade in his throat as she picked up a new one to look for Bolg. He had never seen her coming. Neither would his spawn. The lyrical chime of delight in the back of her head underscored her spree as she hacked her way through friend and foe alike to find her quarry. He fell, and she turned to the others that had wronged her, overwriting the black on the steel with vivid red.

She didn’t notice when they called her name, and she didn't stop until her task was done.

She died and she lived and she killed and she watched.

She fled and she ran and she wept and she fought.

The rams rushed past, drawing a war chariot, and she began again. She ran too slow, climbed too slow, arrived too late and kept running. Thorin shouted as she rushed past him in the ruins on the hill. Dwalin reached. Missed. She kept running.

Orcs in triumph didn’t stay quiet. They didn’t stop her or contest her or notice her until she reached the main horde, and she could see what she had chased, who she had followed, why she was there. Why it mattered. Azog turned and she would never be strong enough to escape the arms holding her back from a hopeless charge. She’d run too slow, and had to watch as a blade pierced through, and a cry broke from him. She had to watch as he was tossed aside like nothing, and bled out in agony on ice and snow because she hadn’t done enough.

She hadn’t done enough.

The weight of guilt her stopped her from screaming.

The first pierce of steel restored it.

 

* * *

 

Frey scrambled to confirm that Fíli was alive, and found no one and nothing nearby. He had been there when she fell asleep. He had been there and he had been alive, and worried about her and watching her and protecting her and he had been there. He had left her to go gawp at a pile of fucking shiny pebbles.

They'd gone to the treasury.

They were always in the useless miserable poisonous fucking treasury.

So she killed a chair.

She shattered the only useable chair they had against a wall in the space of half a dozen blows, screaming out her fear. Splinters and scraps ricocheted, about half of them were got stuck in her hair and the coat’s fur, and if there had been a scientist around it might have been possible to measure the quantity of fucks she gave. No one else could find a number that small. That had not been normal. That had been Galadriel and Gandalf and Smaug and the Ring.

Three of those were unavailable. Which meant it was the damn ring again.

That had been a manufactured dream. That had been a retelling and a reliving of every horror of the battle she had read, placing her into them through the eyes of narrators at times and forcing her in as a useless witness at others. She had one theory and it was garbage. It was dramatic, and conceited and possibly bullshit, but, she had to think that had been an attack on her directly. Either mining for information because Sauron was nothing if not thorough; plus, he had the ring to play proxy for him -- or it was some effort to break her.

And that, well.

That was just too damn bad for the big blinky bastard. Wherever he was.

She’d been trying to find a nice coherent plan for too long.

Bugger that. Plans were for elves.

She was a moron, but she wasn’t an elf.

“To hell with plans. To hell with logic. To hell with waiting. It is fuck this shit o’clock.” She snarled as she slipped on every bit of anything she had that counted as armor.

Azog existed and since she hadn’t stood over him with his burning body separated entirely from his burning head, he was less dead than she wanted. That meant that the pasty prick would show up at some point and try to kill her dwarves. Her. Dwarves. He was a dramatic tosser, so it would probably be on the hill where he could show off. Odds of outfighting him were low. She was pretty much useless in battle. Odds of out-maneuvering him were lower. She wasn’t a strategist. Eagles were always bloody late. Gandalf was a useless captive pothead.

And her dwarves were insane.

Also: watching her.

Several had appeared in the doorway, a cross between gleeful and terrified. Fíli had not come. Which meant she wouldn’t have to try to explain, or risk being understood. He was the only one that talked to her, or had a damn clue what she said, and even that was spotty.

“Right.” She was still gasping from her tantrum. There was still wood flung about the room. “Definitely a bit hysterical right now. I know that. Don’t care. I have been here half a year, dudes, and every frick-fracking time I try to do things with a plan it goes to hell. Worse than hell. I can give Gandalf a run for his money. My plans are shit. Thorin does better than me. Fuck. I’ve run directly toward Azog. Twice! Who does that? I threw Bilbo off a cliff. Do you remember that? Do you fucking remember Goblintown? Do you remember that bullshit? My plan was to what? Chase you all out of the cave and get you captured? That didn’t work. So. I threw Bilbo off a fucking cliff in the hope that he’d pick up the most evil thing there is in this whole damn fantasy land. That was my plan. Before that, my plan was to let Gollum keep it for a while. Just swing by later you know? Seriously, my plans are the worst. This shit isn’t my strong point.

“You know what my strong point is? I do. I know. I know the thing that I have going for me. I might not know exactly what’s coming, but I’m far enough outside of this asinine crap that I can see the general shape of it all. That’s what I have to work with right now. I know what canon is trying to do.”

Accepting it dulled some of the panic. Confessing it to the dwarves let her feel some release.

“So, this is how it goes. Canon reasserts itself every bloody time I give it the opportunity. Y’all got caught by elves. You rode in fucking barrels. Which still doesn’t make any goddamn sense to me. Shouldn’t you suffocate? Or drown? How did that even work? But. Fine. Fine. If this is how the Valar want to play, I’m happy to oblige them. If they get their jollies making me run on an constantly accelerating treadmill, I’m just going to have to start breaking shit. By the way, Mahal! Letting me have sex with the hot dwarf does not make up for everything you titless dicks have put me through. Even if it was Fíli. And even if it was awesome. Which it was. Still! Does. Not. Make. Us. Even. Especially since he got all weird after and I haven’t gotten anymore and that isn’t fair. You are reallllllly not allowed to give me a good thing and then take it away. I am going through hell just to save your damn lineage you ancient Ardan supernatural twit. You should be nice to me.

“So. Mahal? Sorry, but what’s coming? It’s on you. I don’t even give a fuck. Look upon my field man. Barren. If you wanted me to be subtle, you shouldn’t have fucked with my plans so much. You could have let something work out. Just once. Cause you knowwwww the dwarves aren’t going to like this. Fuck. Thorin really isn’t going to like this, he’s gonna panic. Elves’ll be freaked. Men’ll bitch. Nope. Guess what? Don’t care! Not even a teensy bit. I’m done, and since I can’t just say screw you guys I’m going home, I guess it’s time to do something drastic. And we are all just lucky that I enjoyed that class enough to memorize this and that I helped out on a couple jobs and spent a few late nights thinking this through with the fandom at large. Cause this is a pretty shitty idea, but it’s the only one I’ve got right now.”

Balin and the others shuffled out of the way when she looked at them. Angry enough to have passed the point of steam pouring out her ears, and already to the level where she felt she could shoot lasers out of her eyes, it was probably a good call by them.

Subtle had never been her thing.

Her wrath was obvious.

All the same, she was over it. This. Arda. Middle Earth. Trying to keep up with the magical smashed up adventures of canon and chaos and fanon and catastrophe. Nothing was guaranteed if she waited for it to start. So she was going to be proactive.

Her dwarves were not going to die on that stupid hill.

Frey cinched the coat tighter, nodded at the dwarves -- who were now cowering a tad -- and jogged for the forges.

 

* * *

 

It was the quiet moments that were the most treasured. The times when he could stand or sit or lay with Thorin and simply _be there_ with no expectation, no guilt, no anxious pressure weighing down on them. Those were the times that Bilbo savored. Those were the times that he clung to when Thorin would return to the treasury, muttering.

When they were together, there was no madness that Bilbo could see. There was nothing to prompt the way his gut twisted with doubt. There was nothing at all to make Bilbo think that the dwarf he loved was weaker than the call of gold. Still, Bilbo didn’t have the courage to ask. If he had, and Thorin had changed? He could not have withstood that. So Bilbo savored the time that he had, face buried in Thorin’s neck, breathing him in like a balm against the horrible tang of the mountain’s air.

There was something wrong in Erebor.

Bilbo was a sensible enough hobbit to connect the warnings he had heard with what he watched each day.

The bravery required to challenge it was another matter.

He could wait for Gandalf’s return, and the wizard could do whatever it was that wizards did. Fix it. Make it better. There had been a few vague mentions of not entering the mountain without him that they had all roundly forgotten in the face of the approaching deadline.

They had entered, confident.

Unfortunately, everything seemed to have gone a bit wrong around him, and Bilbo didn’t have the faintest idea how to help.

He followed the dwarves in the treasury, trying to look like he was casually enjoying the pile of shiny things, afraid to attract attention. They were very pretty, and it was very impressive, but, in truth, he would have been far happier if Bard returned with provisions. He didn’t like being in there.

After his ring had fallen from his pocket half a dozen times in as many days, Bilbo prowled through the treasury with legitimate intent and found a chain that wasn’t too ostentatious to secure it around his neck. Finding it when it had fallen into the gold had been a bother.

At first he had been there because Thorin had asked, his voice carrying too much importance for Bilbo to consider denying him. For a while, he had enjoyed it. Truly. The marvel of it all; the scope and wonder free to be enjoyed sans dragon. Enjoyment was blunted by the memory of Smaug echoing from the darkness. Which was fortunate in the end. It allowed him to find a clear patch of his own mind and see what was happening to the others.

He wanted to talk to Frey about it. Needed to, more like if there was anyone that would be able to explain, it would be her. However, she refused to spend time anywhere near him. If he entered a room, she would burn holes in his chest with her gaze, then flee before Bilbo could speak.

In the evenings, he would curl tight into Thorin’s side, where they would hold the Arkenstone, and Thorin would mutter to himself. There was a note of hatred and disgust in his voice that curled Bilbo’s toes, but he couldn’t decipher the words, only a general theme of oaths and gold that broke Bilbo’s heart. Thorin was endlessly protective of him. No doubt that was a result of the warnings that Thorin had heard, but Bilbo feared that the constant mumble was an affirmation of the risk.

There was some consolation in Kíli’s departure with the elves. Even if the company did scowl when it was mentioned, it was for the best. If Bilbo was right, and the others were losing themselves to the gold, then when Kíli returned, he would be unaffected, and able to prevail upon them.

And there was Fíli.

Bilbo had hope there.

The youngest dwarf in the company now that Kíli was gone, Fíli was behaving admirably. He was nearly as concerned about Thorin’s mind and Bilbo was. He wore the cloak that Thorin explained belonged to King Thror, and did so with tremendous grace. As if it was meant to be there. As if he was comfortable in it, in a way that Thorin would not be.

That made sense to Bilbo, there were many a token of old Bolo Proudfoot that their children and grandchildren could not bear to see. Fíli wore it without being assaulted by dark memories.

Yes, Bofur and the Ri brothers did seem to be particularly on edge now that Nori was slowly hobbling around. Yes, the line of Ur was quieter and less convivial than Bilbo had known them to be. Yes, Dwalin and Balin seemed haunted, but, the mountain was a tomb, and the air was stale, and there were none that could deny that death lingered like a promise. Yes, sometimes Thorin held Bilbo by the arm too tightly, and said too little, and unsettled the confidence that Bilbo clung to.

They would be fine. All of them.

Thorin was king, stone and crown and mountain and everything neatly in a line.

Provisions were coming.

They had a seer to guide their steps.

If she would answer their questions.

Bilbo looked up from the Arkenstone, and saw her wander inside the large dining chamber, covered in dirt or soot and dragging her feet. Frey dropped to the floor against the wall.

The interest of the Company had evaporated since the dragon fell. They no longer joked or teased them. They no longer frowned at the sight. They didn’t say anything about it at all.

Like every night, Fíli woke enough to notice her return, and shifted until he held her. She squirmed, grumbling, but the prince didn’t pay attention to the mess she was. He just held onto her, and fell back asleep, having confirmed that she she was alive at the end of another day. He had something to hold onto; he would be fine.

Just like Thorin.

And if the King under the Mountain needed Bilbo to stand by his side, and support him, and hold the arkenstone for him, to keep it safe, then he would, because Bilbo had no intention of letting Thorin Oakenshield fall to the madness he whispered about.

  


* * *

 

With Kíli gone, he never felt comfortable, so Fíli did what he could to concentrate on the warnings he had been given. She had gone mute on the subject since entering the mountain, but Frey had told him time and again what to watch for in his uncle. It was painful to see, but there was no choice. He had to intercede.

Subtly.

He couldn’t bring himself to outright defy his uncle and King. Memories from the journey when he had stood up to him left him queasy and remorseful, doing it now, when Thorin held the Arkenstone and the mountain, was more than he could bear. The thought sowed discord in Fíli’s mind every time he considered it.

He could not stop the echo in his mind that told him Thorin might not be strong enough.

He did what he could to prevent it happening.

Days after receiving them, he still wore the massive furred robes. He didn’t want to offend Thorin’s generosity and provoke something worse. So he wore them, and slowly grew accustomed to the weight, until they became his armor against the possibility of all that could go wrong. An oath to his forebears to protect his kin and the mountain. He would let the fear come, but it could not touch him.

Wearing them meant that Thorin did not. So the sacrifice was worth it.

Things would be better when Kíli returned.

His uncle would be easier to persuade with both of them before him, speaking sense, and cutting through whatever troubled his mind. The Arkenstone had been recovered. Thorin was King. The King under the Mountain. No one could contest that in good conscience. Still, Fíli was forced to stare down daily attempts for the crown to be worn. Thorin stared at it too fondly. The hunger was repulsive, and the blind desire apparent. Thorin looked at the raven crown as if he had been forgiven all of his past faults, and was now the unquestionable ruler. Fíli found him sitting in the treasury, holding the crown, admiring it and the horde, every day.

Frey had never explained what she had seen fully. She had said enough.

The crown was a talisman of madness.

Until Gandalf arrived, Fíli couldn’t trust his uncle. The dragon’s taint had spread and joined the gold sickness that would have been there anyway. Thorin could be forgiven for being drawn in by it, but Fíli would not let his uncle be lost.

Bilbo wasn’t helping.

The hobbit spent most of his time at Thorin’s side. For the first days Bilbo was most often digging and searching through the gold. Fíli thought it was idle curiosity and a lack of something better to do, but could no longer be sure. Bilbo carried the Arkenstone. The most precious object in the mountain and it was held by a hobbit that his uncle adored. The consolidation of those two precious things did nothing to aid Fíli’s concerns. If the matter came to a head, he doubted he would be brave enough to oppose Thorin.

One dwarf at a time, one dwarf a day, ever since Kíli had abandoned them, Fíli had spoken to the others. He felt sick doing it: muddy and thrown off by his own action. He loathed it. It had to be done. Balin and Dwalin had been wounded by the consideration, but listened, and assured him that if Thorin should fall, they would stand at Fíli’s side. Nori had been stunned and disbelieving, at the time barely able to sit upright, but was persuaded, and spoke to his brothers when they hesitated. Glóin resisted longer than any of them, stalwart in his loyalty. It was only Fíli’s promise that nothing would come to pass unless Thorin showed undeniable signs that persuaded him. The oath he asked for was lengthy, but Glóin was right to be circumspect.

If it had to happen, it would be a terrible offense they would commit.

It would only happen if it was necessary.

He would not usurp his uncle’s throne for less than a grievous breach of principle.

Unless their lives were at risk.

Unless it was clear.

The thought still stung.

He was doing as the dragon had said, had insinuated, had threatened.

The company told him every whisper and scrap that Frey had ever rambled to any of them of the battle they knew was approaching, and Fíli tried to find answers there. He was not overly successful. Elves, Men, orcs, dwarves, goblins, trolls, wargs, and…. possibly birds of some kind. The men _would_ provoke a war -- though, the reasons why were unknown -- and chaos would try to end them all. Fíli needed clarity, and had none.

With Frey vanishing the moment she woke each day, and with Fíli’s suspicions that she was leaving the mountain on yet another hare-brained scheme of self-endangerment, there was little he could do but prepare for the specifics of what would come.

She wouldn’t forgive him interfering in her tasks again. That had been made excessively clear. So he let her be, and held on all the tighter when she returned.

She was gone as she often was, when the sun reached it’s peak and a shout rose from the front hall.

Bard kept his word, and returned to the mountain with a cartload of supplies, blankets, food, clothing, ale, and necessary tools that would not have withstood time’s weight. He came with a broad smile, and his bairns on the back of the wagon.

The elder two lunged to investigate Smaug’s body, pulling up short before they touched it, gaping at the flecks of dry flesh that billowed upwards as their movement disturbed the air. The scales  and horns and bones remained solid, but every bit of flesh beneath it had begun to convert to an ashy fluff. Fíli struggled to recall the children’s names, failed, and turned back to observe his uncle’s interactions with the man.

Uncomfortable.

That was the kindest that could be said of it.

Thorin stood stiffly, holding eye contact for too long. Bard failed to hide his confusion at the dragon’s remains. There had been more important things to do.

Bard knew the stories of King Thror, and the madness that endangered so many. The dragon that his greed brought down now lay dead, but Bard observed the company with great caution. Almost as if he tried to keep something from them. Still, when Bilbo asked about the cart and payment, Thorin nodded.

“A fair price, you said. And what price is that?”

“Noting you will miss, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“He is the King under the Mountain now.” Fíli interjected, crossing to join them.

Thorin didn’t turn to Fíli, but raised his chin as he met Bard’s eye. Unbothered, Bard spoke lightly.

“So you are. But I did not bring these supplies to curry favor with a monarch. You have freed this region from the threat of a dragon’s attack, and are owed whatever assistance we can show you. The autumn is already fading, and unaided, you would be in a weakened position.”

Tone aside, Fíli could hear the subtle threat.

“Few would call Erebor weak.” Thorin answered.

“And I am not.”

“And yet you mention the possibility.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo slipped his hand into Thorin’s, standing like the consort he would be, and cut through the tension in the air to ask, “What do you know, Bard? You would not have brought your children if there was not something. You brought us more than supplies.”

“Aye.”

“What do you know?”

The first night they had met Bilbo, they had all dismissed him as soft. He started to reveal how wrong that was before they had gone to bed. In the months after, they had all discovered the strength of their hobbit. It would have been a comfort to have the indefatigable hobbit at the King’s side. It should have assured the company that nothing would ever go wrong. But Bilbo loved Thorin too dearly to question him. Fíli could see that. Fíli could look at the pair as they spoke to Bard and see how Bilbo would ensure that Thorin always received what he wanted.

That was why Fíli had not spoken to Bilbo.

The hobbit’s loyalty was to Thorin, not to the dwarves.

If it all went wrong, both would have to be removed at the same time.

The king and consort watched Bard hand his younger daughter to the elder, and waited until they had stepped away before responding.

“There were rumors in Laketown. Before I returned, stories had spread of the elven realm coming under attack.”

“We have heard of it.” Fíli inserted.

“And have you heard of what the Master of the Lake desires? What he has told the people was promised to them?”

“We made no promises.” Thorin snapped.

“The Master is a more talented liar than you would guess. The people believe that the old stories will come true and silver and gold will flow down from the mountain and into their pockets. The Master has told them of the wealth that they will have, and has told them of the greed of dwarves.”

Thorin scowled, and Fíli forced his hand to unclench from the hilt of his sword. The bitterness in the room rose.

“The Master has warned them that you will give them nothing if you are able. He has sown distrust in them.”

“Men are weak, and greedy. Often violent. This has not changed, and dwarves have withstood.” Thorin spoke from a lifetime of betrayal. Bilbo squeezed his hand. Fíli’s king glanced to his consort, “But dwarves remain as they are, no matter the lies spread about them. The mountain is reclaimed. We will ensure the region is peaceable and provided for. You can bring the first of the shipments back to them.”

Fíli startled at the words. At the lie. They would not simply give gold to the men. Not without agreements in place. Thorin would not allow it. Bilbo didn’t understand. A hobbit couldn’t understand.

“There is more.”

“Of course there is.” Bilbo mumbled.

“The elven king came himself to Laketown.”

“What of it?”

“He came with a small force. Looking for his son. The bulk of his people never entered the town.”

“The bulk?” Fíli asked, with lessons from childhood pointing toward an answer.

“A force larger than has been raised in a generation marched north from Mirkwood. They make for Dale.” Around them, the rest of the company started, hearing the tacit threat, knowing the likely course of events. “Men from the Lake have joined them.”

Thorin would make the right choice. He had to. He would not fall into the seduction of the dragon’s curse. He would do what was right for them all.

Face frozen, no answer given, Thorin and Bilbo led the company past Smaug’s body to stand on the bridge, looking out to Dale. He didn’t speak, just observed. There was nothing to see in the ruins of Dale, but soon it would be swarmed by elves.

Something passed between Bilbo and Thorin, silent but substantial. Bard’s children were unloading the cart behind them, and Fíli could feel the note in the air that they should leave as soon as they could. They didn’t belong in the mountain. With an army approaching, they wouldn’t stay. The company would stand or fall on their own. They would not need, they did not want the aid of any but their own kind.

“Master Bard?” Thorin asked after long minutes.

“Aye?”

“You intend to depart with your payment shortly?”

“If you want us to go.”

Hope lit in Fíli’s chest. His uncle was making the reasoned choice. Fíli wouldn’t have to take action.

“When you do, you will carry something to Thranduil and the Master.”

“And what is it I’ll be taking to them?”

The King under the Mountain looked to Fíli, looked to Bilbo, looked to the green stone of Erebor, somewhere caught between an apology and pride before he answered the man, “An invitation. To negotiate recompense.”

Fíli swallowed, and looked at the ground. Like a clarion horn, the confusion fell away, revealing only the single truth. One he had denied and dodged for days. One that would force him to do the unforgivable.

One he had to face.

Goldsickness ran in many forms. It could drag a dwarf into greed and violence, or it could corrupt their mind to the point it could be persuaded. Controlled. To the point that a dwarf’s ideals and beliefs were erased by whomever held sway over them. They all had discussed their fear that Thorin would turn angry, mistrustful, and warlike. They had feared it. They had planned for it. Fíli had stayed at his side to guard against the beginning of it, kept him from crown and robe as if the trappings of power might serve as a catalyst. They believed that his internal nature would cascade him toward such behavior.

They were wrong. Fíli had not seen it start, but saw it perfectly now.

With Bilbo at his side, softly turning him with a gentle hold on his wrist, it was clear. None of them suspected this. None of them thought that Thorin would fall under the thrall of another.

A hobbit would never understand. Could never understand. What was right for dwarves was not the same as what was right for them, or for men or elves. Dwarves could not trust the rest of the world. That had been proven time and again. They would be betrayed and destroyed.

Behind Fíli’s collapsing acknowledgement, Bilbo prodded Thorin into proposing a conference with the men and elves. They would offer apology to Thranduil, inform him of where the elves had gone. They would discuss aid to Laketown and to Dale should it be rebuilt. Each word Thorin spoke drove home another nail.

It was undeniable.

Glóin stepped close to Fíli, stalwart and the most loyal of Thorin’s company. The dwarf was rigid, but caught Fíli’s attention, and nodded a condemnation.

That was the final blow.

They would do what they must.

He needed to find Frey before it began. He would not let her be used as a hostage when Thorin resisted. They would need her prophesies to best prepare for the war ahead.

In iglishmêk, Fíli gave orders to the others to wait until she returned, to prepare for what they would do. It was an activation of existing plans. They already knew their roles.

He breathed deep the chilled autumn air, and surveyed the fields once more. Chance, nothing more than that, had him look toward the ancient watchtower on Ravenhill. He saw a flash of movement; someone running down it.

The figure vanished behind a block of stone, and before Fíli could question what or who it was, a crack like thunder travelled through the earth.

It rumbled beneath their feet, and the dwarves turned to the tower, stone sense already alerting them of what was coming. A few stones flew through the air, falling off the edge to crash into the valley, but most remained atop the hill. Bofur cursed, stepping nearer, and pointed. Like it had lost the will to live, the tower bowed, cracked, and collapsed. Dust rose, the stones tumbled, and aside from a piece of the wall standing half the height it had been, the Ravenhill watchtower crumpled.

They knew it wasn’t chance.

No dwarf that felt it start could call it a natural occurrence.

The tower, deteriorating as it was, stood sentinel over the valley. It had. No longer. There was nothing left a person could climb.

It was an attack.

The first of many.

Fíli’s gut rolled.

Glóin and Dwalin encouraged him back into the mountain, ignoring the final crumbling, and starting to whisper of what they would do. Ori came running with pen and ink. Balin knew where to find the ravens and how to beg for this favor. Bilbo’s voice rose outside as he controlled their uncle and king. Bard’s children had the cart halfway out the gate.

Fíli turned to the exterior once more, looking past the corpse that bought them their mountain. His uncle was beyond, unbothered by the act of war. Speaking to the man.

“What do you wish to send kustâ uzbadê?” Balin asked, pen held over the thin strip of paper.

Fear evaporated, and he did what he had to do. Dain would bring his army to contend with elves and whatever else came. Fíli and the company would contend with their corrupted leader. Years of loyalty faded, Fíli issued crisp orders, and became the dwarf he was meant to be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ........ *Smiles*  
>  Remember, I love you all very very much.
> 
> Edit (11/08/2016) : Promise I'm writing. Work got nutty + the stupid US election is freaking me out. But I love you lots and lots. and 29 makes me have feelings. So you lot are probably totally screwed. 
> 
> **Khuzdul:**  
>  Durinultarg : Durin's beard  
> Azsâlul’abad : Lonely Mountain  
> kustâ uzbadê : my true king


	29. The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which confidence is a terrible thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot advise strongly enough that you not be an adult. It's awful here. 70 hour work weeks, and then everything else, and just. ugh. Really hard to write with all that.  
> You should be warned that I had to get up and walk in a circle while I wrote this. Multiple times. So, brace yourselves. 
> 
> Khuz on hover and at the end.

 

Thorin clung to Bilbo’s arm, watching the speck of a person descend from the hill, confused.

Mahal did him a kindness in allowing him to earn Bilbo’s affection. The hobbit rattled off instructions to Bard on what else they would need for the winter, and what they would not tolerate at the meeting. Six months around dwarves was enough for him to assert everything Thorin would have. Certain of the edible insistences were entirely Bilbo though. The vegetables.

It was necessary since Thorin could do little but gape as the speck climbed off of Ravenhill, and stray pieces of what had been a keep made their way into the valley.

Bard accepted Thorin’s short, stunned answers, and stalled his departure as the person approached. He was curious. They all were.

The rest of the Company was already inside.

He needed to speak to them. Fear and guilt had stayed his tongue so far, but he had to speak to them. They needed to understand his behavior of late. The song the gold sung was seductive and he wanted to drown in it, dive into it, surrender to that beautiful melody, but he had seen his grandfather fall, and Thorin fought every day to ignore its allure. He knew how easy it would be to let go.

He was their king, he needed to reassure them that all would be well. That he would not disappoint them.

He struggled; he knew he did, but an echo of a warning, and Bilbo at his side, gave him an anchor in the storm. His hobbit was a beacon and a mercy. He was a reminder of what truly mattered, and what did not. Everytime the song crescendoed, Thorin issued a lecture to himself to keep clear what was important.

It made him withdrawn, as grouchy as his sister had ever labelled him, and reluctant to do what he must.

Gold called to the line of Durin louder than any, and for days Thorin had deluded himself, believing he was the only one that heard it. It was long still notes that hung middair when he was far from the treasury. They caught in his ear and drew gently across his mind like a caress. Within the treasury, the world vanished under the onslaught. If he lost his focus for more than a moment, it cocooned around him, taut lines of desire and despair. Then the whispers would start. In a syrupy corruption of Bilbo’s voice, he heard of the threats waiting out of sight. He heard about the many ways the mountain could be taken from them, and the horror they would find themselves facing if Thorin faltered.

The hobbit’s true voice, weary, slightly hoarse, and mildly irritated, drew him out those thoughts every time.

Thorin needed to speak to the others.

Theirs was a lesser struggle, but they needed to be warned explicitly of the way the gold would snare them.

Age old gossip of Fili’s disinterest in wealth was a relief to his mind. His heir would stay strong. If the worst were to happen, Fili would be ready to take charge. That was why the robes of the last King under the Mountain rested on his nephew’s shoulders. They were safer there. Fili wore them with confidence, unburdened by the stress and revulsion the thought gave to Thorin. His nephew had the courage to remind him of what mattered and stand by his side without complaint.

The days of weakness, looking over the horde like it was an irreplaceable gift needed to be put behind them.

Warnings they had aplenty, and the game was already in motion.

He had to be strong, and remember what was important.

Thorin noticed his mouth muttering the plea and promise when Bilbo took his hand.

“You’ve been doing that Thorin.”

“I have.”

“Do you?” Bilbo pressed, “Do you know what’s important? You always say it, but, Thorin, Smaug’s body is well, I’m not sure what to call what it’s doing, but we’ve no way to secure the mountain. All we’ve done is -- all you lot have done is--”

“Admire the gold.” The confession curdled on his tongue. Bilbo smiled at him like the dawn, shock making it a stuttered thing. With Bard standing beside them, all Thorin could do was smile in return.

So, they were not looking when Bard’s eldest spotted the figure from the hill drawing near, and shouted a greeting.

It was Freya.

Thorin didn’t pretend he was surprised.

Bewildered, certainly, as she had displayed no previous indication of stone sense or magic, nor had she mentioned any portent that would necessitate the destruction of an ancient, half crumbled watch tower. However. Surprise would have implied that this strayed from her usual behavior. She was a great many irritating things, but she had not yet wavered from her course, despite how it had appeared from his view for some months.

So, once again, Thorin pushed away the instinctive fury at what she had done, and accepted that it must have been the lesser evil.

With sooty grey dust smeared over her, and scratches over her hands, Frey arrived in a giddy skip. She adjusted Fíli’s old coat with pride as she reached them. Exultant, she almost danced the last steps.

“ _Doneanddone. Fuckthatplace. Thatsthattakencareof_.” She announced. “ _Cantbeliveitworkedbutwhatever_. _Musthavebeenunstable_. _Or_ Mahal _hasmybackonthis_. _Eitherway_. _Greatsuccess_. _Nowthen_. _Wherearetherestofthem? Ineedahug.”_

“Freya?”

“Yes Thorin? _Areyougoingtoyellatme? Areyoumistercrazypants? Howsthatgold? Orareyoucoolsincewereoutside? Sorryboutthetower--butfuckthatplace_.” Confident and determined, she stopped a few feet from him, gesturing excessively, but beaming.  

“Why?” Trust did not stop his curiosity.

The smile hardened, and she glanced over her shoulder at the plume of dust rising in the air, “Because I am not want dead Durins.”

“What does the old watchtower have to do with it?” Bard asked.

“Bolg, Azog,” She counted on one hand, then raised the other to continue, “Thorin, Fili, Kili. And I am nope. _Notlettingthatshithappen_.”

“Uh… Freya.” Bilbo began, “How? How did you…?”

“Oh! _WellyouseeImarealbigdork_. _Apparentlyitswhy_ Mahal _orwhoevergrabbed_ me. _But_. _Fiffteen. Two. Three._ _Thatsbeeninmyheadforagesnow_. _Weknewyouhaditbecauseofthemovies_. _Andyouvegotscales_. _And_. _Afriendonlinetoldusallaboutthestructuralstability_. _And_. _Ididspendsometimeonademosite_. _Aaaaaannnndddddd_.” Her babble stalled on a single word. “ _Actually_. _Youknowhat? ForgetIsaidanything._ I _forgotabout_ Saruman. _Hesarealfuckfaceofanindustrialist_. _Dontwanttopissoffthe_ Ents. _Badplanthat_.

“So. Thorin. _Staysanedude_. Please. You are have known my words of you and Bilbo?”

The shift was alarming, but Thorin nodded. Incoherent as she was, it still served. Whatever she had foreseen drew closer, and her concern had increased. Not once had she shown trust or faith in him since entering Erebor, skirting out of rooms he entered and scowling as well as any dwarf. The implication was clear. Thorin needed to be more vigilant. He needed to be certain. He needed to remember what was important and what was not.

He shook his head, and found Freya, Bard and Bilbo all staring at him.

“ _ThisiswhatImtalkingaboutdude._ ” She grumbled.

“Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was softer, but no less concerned. He wished they were alone, so he could take comfort in Bilbo’s presence and recenter his mind, but the impropriety of doing so stopped him. Even Bard’s children were looking to him with frowns.

Bard did not bother with such tact.

“Are you falling to the madness that destroyed your line? That mountain has long been cursed and foul. If you are to raise yourself as a tyrant and a threat because you have reclaimed it, you will set yourself as an enemy of all the free people in the North.”

“Master Bard,” Thorin cut him off, “It is true there is a risk of such within the mountain, but I am not my Grandfather. If I should prove to be, my kin will do what they must to prevent new tragedy.”

“You trust them?”

He raised his chin, reminding himself of the assistance the man had given them. “My nephew and my companions are made of far stronger stone than any you have encountered in your life.”

“They seemed a bit odd just now.”

“It’s been an odd few weeks.” Bilbo mumbled.

“My kin -- my heir -- will not permit what you fear. If no others, have faith in him, Master Bard.”

“Fili?” Bard’s eldest asked.

“Why you say Fili?” Frey said, having missed most of the exchange.

“Freya is the proof of it Master Bard. Freya, you trust Fili?” Thorin knew the answer before he spoke, but it still touched him how she bristled; as if implying anything less was an insult.

“Fili is good. Fili is safe. _Youhearthatsassypants_? You hear Bard? Fili is good. Thorin is good. Dwarves are good. _Idontfuckingcareiftheyregrumpy_ . _Theyvegotshitgoingon_. _Benicer_. Dwarves is -- are -- good.”

Bard listened, nodded, and continued, “You will meet with the Master and the Elven King?”

Not with any enjoyment, but yes he would. Alliances needed to be formed.

“Indeed, carry our message to them on your return, and know that if you should choose to reclaim your right, Erebor will support you.”

“Think the Master is already looking to have it for himself.”

“That, Erebor will not support.”

“And why is that?” The man replied.

“Bard, King of Dale.” Freya interrupted, implacable. “ _Giveittime. Youlllikeitoneday._ Now. Bilbo. You are watch Thorin. Thorin. You are be not sick. Bard. Sigrid. Tilda. Bain. You are have good day. I am for finding Fili.”

And with that, she nodded, spun and marched for the mountain.

They watched. Behind Thorin, Bilbo and Bard spoke.

“Your seer is strange.”

“Quite.”

“Has she yet been proven wrong?”

“Not on anything of consequence.”

“So I am meant to be King of ruins.”

“You are meant to be King of Dale.”

Thorin turned back before Bard managed to deny it. The man gladly shifted the subject, “I will carry your message. No doubt the Master will insist on sending a messenger of his own. I cannot predict the actions of the elves.”

“No one ever can,” Thorin allowed, taking a purse of gold from his belt, and extending it. The song pulled at him, entreating him to reject the man and return the gold to its rightful place. Thorin looked at Bilbo, and succeeded in handing over payment.

With the others absent, and Bard’s family leading the cart away from the gates, Bilbo took advantage of the privacy, wrapped his arms around Thorin’s chest and clung.

“I don’t think I like what’s happening overmuch Thorin. The others are…”

“They are strong Bilbo. They may falter, but they will not fail. They know the stories of the sickness that destroyed my grandfather. Balin saw it happen. He will know the signs. Fili is strong. If I should weaken, they will do what they must.”

Bilbo pulled back to glare. “Is that meant to be a comfort to me? That they will do what they must? First off, how am I know that I can trust them? Furthermore, what does that mean? Do what they must? What if they think they must attack you? What if they think they must k--” He choked on the word, and set his jaw. “I’m sorry, no. Fili is an excellent dwarf, as are you, but no. I’ll not just trust them in this. If I have to, I’ll do what I must, and I will keep you all safe. It is my job.”

“That is not your role in this.”

“In the quest? I may have been hired as your burglar, but I believe I have done quite a bit more than that. That isn’t what I meant.” He blushed. “The others, well, Thorin, the others do like to talk. Or they did, before.”

Thorin acknowledged it.

“And it is hardly a secret who you are. You’ve told me of it many times since I brought you the Arkenstone.”

Similarly true, the return of the sacred relic continued to astound him.

“And Fili is an excellent dwarf and heir as I have said before. But he is a dwarf, and the mountain is -- oh confusticate the whole mess of it.” Thorin watched his hobbit lose his composure, stamp his foot, and toss his hair, “Thorin. I love you. I am aware that we are far from the Shire, and despite my having no flowers to gift to you and say this for me so I don’t muddle it up, it must be said. It’s actually been said once before, not that you knew what I was saying then. That was in Rivendell. And I wasn’t quite sure you even liked me at the time. Except for-- well. No matter. You aren’t a hobbit, and I will need to speak plainly in dwarvish terms, in words, instead of the easier route with a crown of blooms. I am sorry if this is inappropriate being as you are a King, but I think it must be said and said soon.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin stopped him, “Do you intend to reach a point?”

“I want to wear your braids.” It fell out of Bilbo, startled by Thorin’s interruption, and as he heard it, Bilbo’s eyes went wide at his impertinence. But he did not back down, “I want to marry you, Thorin. For a great many reasons, but at present, because that would make me your consort, and if the gold -- if Freya’s warnings... I would be able to speak for you.”

Stubborn, precious, still faintly bruised, and shielding his desires behind the idea that it was to protect the Company, Bilbo broke every tradition in dwarven romance in a sentence. It should have been Thorin, it should have been formally announced first. It should have been two years of courtship and gifts and formal declarations. He was the leader of his people and Durin’s heir, he should not rush into an attachment and break with tradition.

He did not care.

Bilbo laughed as Thorin kissed him. “So is that a yes then?  I’m aware this isn’t proper, and we can’t have a party or a dance, and it would take ages to go back to the Shire to do this like I’d want, but I, well Thorin, I want this.”

“So you can overrule my authority as King?” He was teasing, not needing to hear a reaffirmation of love to know that Bilbo’s desire to protect him was borne of it.

Bilbo huffed, “That’s only one advantage of it. I also love you more dearly than I should if I had even a drop of sense. But overruling is an excellent one, however, I was thinking more of Fili.”

“My heir is well.”

“He isn’t.”

“He’s fine.”

“Did you not hear him just now?”

He had. Fili was cautious and protective, which was no crime. It was a gift. He had a solid sense of what they needed and where their people ought to be brought. Thorin shook his head.

“Fili is not wholly unaffected, none of us are, but he is strong enough to resist. You heard Freya. He is well.”

Bilbo pinched his lips, and held his tongue. No doubt the conversation would resume. Bilbo would see reason in time. Fili could be trusted. In fact, it would only be to the best that his consort be ready to support his heir should Thorin lose himself. It would be best for everyone that way. For a few hours, he would enjoy this, Bilbo, and his love, and allow himself to not think of the danger.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’ll be enough?”

“Dain will come well provisioned.”

Nori nodded along with the rest as they tried to think of anything else they’d need to survive the coming battle. Food and soldiers they listed first, accounting for enough to both prevail in battle and then to persevere through a winter in a poorly stocked mountain. Then came a listing of the more specialized weapons Dain ought to bring.

Troll spears and chariots armored to fight orcs. Bladed shields to cut through a goblin horde as the army advanced. Launchable nets for bats and carrion birds. Arrow breakers to contend with the elves. Chain linked weights in catapults to cut through the ranks of Men. If they knew of any other foe they would face, they could list it, and Dain would bring the appropriate supplies. The endless ingenuity of their people had seen the creation of dozens of specialized means of destroying them.

“Has anyone heard her mention anything else?” Balin asked, pen balanced above the tiny paper, nearly filled with his tiny runes.

“Why not just ask her?” Bombur said. Nori, and most of the others stared for a moment. Bombur realized his mistake and stumbled, “Oh, well, maybe when she gets back from wherever she’s gone to.”

None of them liked to think about their Seer sneaking off to parts unknown on tasks unknown. She wasn’t the best at defending herself, and with a war rising around them, they needed to keep her better protected. Once she returned, they’d not let her out of their sight again. Not that a promise for the future could do anything if she was already harmed.

Which was why Fili looked as well tempered as a thundercloud.

“She’ll be back, lad. Always is.” Balin announced, sliding the page to their King to sign.

Within minutes, the royal advisor slipped out of the room and up to the rookery, where some of the ravens of old nested.

The rest waited, uncomfortable.

It wasn’t a thing they’d wanted to do, but it was necessary.

Thorin had lost his senses. Negotiating with the elves. With the Men. Offering to trade after the way they’d been treated. Offering to work together. It wasn’t right. Nori hated to have to turn his back on the bastard, having walked away from him once before, but Bofur and Dwalin and all the others agreed. And they were a far more loyal sort than he was. It was the right thing to do, even if they all felt a bit sick about it.

They wouldn’t let the madness of Thorin Oakenshield destroy their chance of a future.

“What’ll we do about him? What’re we planning to tell him?” Ori asked.

“Nothing, as of yet.” Fili said to the table, “At present he seems to trust me, and if this can be done without violence all the better. We will begin constructing a barricade at the gate tonight. I will distract them. Bombur, Bifur, Dori, Gloin, Oin: we need to seal the mountain before an attack can begin.”

“Can’t build with Smaug still in the way.”

“We must.”

“It would be poisonous, working around that.” Ori added, more hesitant than he had been in months.

“But after that part of the corpse is covered, if they would not be building over top of that decaying filth, but over stone, they would be safe?” Ori considered Fili’s question, then agreed. The Prince -- their King, continued, “Begin by collapsing the rest of the structures near the gate onto the body to cover it. Build over that. We will find a more permanent solution in the spring when the threat has abated. For now we cannot trust the elves, or the Men, and we must not leave the mountain open to attack. Bard and his children were able to enter with a single stone moved.”

Nori could see the plans coming together in Bifur’s eyes, and smirked. Making things was grand, but there was also a bit of joy to be had to knocking something down again. Especially things as damaged as that area had been by the final fight with the worm. Raining good dwarvish stone on him would be a pleasure.  

“The rest of us will go through the treasury and the armory. What we carry now is not enough to keep us safe.”

“What about Bilbo and Thorin? An’ the Arkenstone?” Dwalin grumbled, “Can’t think he’ll take it calm when he hears what we’re doin’.”

“No,” Fili looked a hundred years older than he was then, “No he will not.”

“And what of the hobbit?”

“He holds some sway over my uncle, that is plain to see. It was before as well, but --”

Nori waited, with Dwalin a step away, while their king considered how to say what was on his mind. This was why they could trust him. He was still thinking, where Thorin wasn’t. Fili wasn’t swayed by any voice but his own. He was his own self, his own dwarf, stronger than the rest and wise enough to make the decisions that had to be made. Nori had served the Durin line in one backwards way or another for all of his life, and knowing that he’d have no cause to change that warmed his chest.

“For now, we can trust neither. Both are too happy to allow the elves to enter our mountain, to take our gold, and trample us back to dust. I will not allow that.”

“So what’re you planning then?”

“Dwalin, you found the royal chambers well preserved? And the doors solid?”

“Aye, locks still sound and all. What’re you thinkin of?”

“I will not have them maltreated. He is sick. We have no sign he has become malicious as Thror did. When Gandalf returns, he may yet be able to save him -- them.”

There were enough of the Company standing behind Fili that they could easily overwhelm the pair. If it came down to it, some of Nori’s less savory skills could put both on the ground in a few minutes without help. Wouldn’t be without a bit of blood though.

Fili was right.

They didn’t want that.

They just needed Thorin out of the way so Fili could keep them safe.

If it all went to plan and the wizard could clear up whatever had happened inside of Thorin’s skull, none of them would speak of it again. Fili would step aside, and Thorin would sit the throne he was born to have. They just had to sort this middle part. They all knew that it was what Thorin would want. Didn’t make it any less gutting to think about it.

“So what’re we gonna do, uzbad?” Dwalin repeated.

“We prepare first. Only after we are armored, all of us, well armoured, will we act. Both at once, no permanent damage.”

“Not just grab em when they come in?” Nori laughed, “Be a lot easier than giving them a chance to plot.”

“Freya.”

“What about her?”

“She is not affected by the mountain, she could never be. Once she has returned, she will confirm our suspicions. She will know what to do about Bilbo.”

“Lad….” Dwalin hedged.

“Do not.”

“Lad, she’s been sneaking out, you know she has, and the attacks all a sudden? The old tower weren’t in a great shape, but whatever the elves used to tear it down, we’ve not seen it afore this. She knows things the rest of us don’t… and we don’t know where she is, maybe she’s off with them.”

It wasn’t despair that rose in Fili’s eyes then, it was fury. It was fire and calamity. Fili threw Dwalin to the wall with a harsh push, caught him by the beard to wrench him down, and held his knife above his clenched fist. Dwalin didn’t react. He only looked at the ground. Nori and the rest waited on their King’s command. They would stand behind him no matter his choice.

They could trust him to see true.

Their King was always right.

They all knew that.

She was important. She knew what was coming, and there was no excuse for doubting her loyalty. She had never swayed from them, never done less than risk her life in various stupid ways to keep them alive.

“She will return. And you will not doubt her.” Curt and violent, his voice ended the discussion. Dwalin straightened when he was released, not a hair on his beard harmed, and bowed his head, “Go to the armory: when she does, she needs something to provide better protection than the leather she wears. Find something. Bifur?”

“Uzbade?”

“You have a thought how to do what I ask?”

“Kun, ‘idbalul aztâk. Ak aktibi zûr.”

“And you can begin tonight?”

Bifur grinned, confident as anything, and bowed an exit at Fili’s gestured dismissal.

Fili, Bofur and Nori found themselves alone, the others slipping away to follow orders and prepare for what was to come. They were silent, and Bofur edged closer until they were pressed together up one side as they stood.

Damned sappy dwarf was fretting over the cut on his back. Dragon or not, it was only a cut, and the thing had healed better than they’d thought possible. Faster too. He was up and about, and it only occasionally leaked a bit of blood. Dori stitched his binder back together while he slept, so that was that taken care of. Ori gave him a thorough recounting of what happened while he slept.

Through it all was Bofur, guarding him as much as he did anything else.

It was nice, but it wasn’t needed. Nori wasn’t about to break apart, and if any of the company thought that he’d sit back while the rest risked themselves in stopping Thorin from dragging them all into ruin, he’d have to teach them how wrong they were. On the field, his King or Dwalin were the best of their fighters. But this was what Nori did, and had done for a long time.

He’d be taking part in it.

And if he listened to the little glimmer of doubt in his chest for a moment longer than necessary, the one that wanted to consider Thorin’s reasons, it was a side effect of the medicines Oin still made him drink. Nori knew where his loyalty lay: with the dwarf standing in the room, decked in robes and looking every inch the King he was.

He knew why their King had not sent them away. Nori had been his first ally back in Rivendell. Bofur had become a staunch ally during their time in Mirkwood. They understood how important it was, and they would not back away from what was necessary. Nori was almost touched by it all, except he knew how far below the King he was.

Bofur inclined his head toward the exit in a query, but Nori didn’t have a chance to answer.

No one else in the mountain sounded like Frey.

No one else could make their King startle up from his thoughts like that.

If it weren’t inappropriate and unbefitting his rank, he’d have teased Fili about the reaction. Instead, he watched.

Frey damn near ran her way into the room, trailing dust, and red cheeked. She wore Fili’s old coat, looking tiny with it trying to fall off her shoulders, and the cuffs trailing to her fingertips. She needed better armor, and better clothes, as soon as they could be found.

It didn’t stop her goal.

She ignored everyone and everything save for Fili, and beamed as she flung herself at him. With her arms around his neck, her toes brushed the ground, and Nori and Bofur tried to find the rubble of the room more interesting than whatever the pair was getting up to. Bofur poked Nori in the leg, and they took turns glancing over to see them, and gesturing a conversation about what they’d get up to later. At the present it was nothing more than Freya snuggling into his neck and Fili kissing the side of her head. Previous evidence and a victorious bet let Nori know that wouldn’t last.

“ _Safesafesafesafesafe_. You are safe Fili. _Cannothappenifitdoesntexist_. Fuck _thatbuilding_. Fuck _thatplace_. _Nobodysgonnadiethere_.” She mumbled, " _I_ _sntitawesome_. _Stillcantbelieveitworked_. _For_ fucks _sakeguysseriously_   _Howthedizzy_ fuck _didthatwork_?”

“Freya?”

“ _Nopesorry_ Nori. _Notcomingout_. No.” And she buried her head deeper out of sight amidst their King’s furs. “ _Ipretendedthatdidntscarethe_ shit _outofme_. _Ilied_. Fuck _thatplace_.”

“Where have you been?” Their king asked. When she didn’t answer, pressing tighter, he removed her from his chest, set her on the ground, and all three waited to hear her answer. Dwalin’s doubt gnawed on the fringe of his mind, and Nori let it, hoping she would say nothing to provoke the reaction Dwalin had earned.

“I am sorry, Fili… _Pleasedontbepissed_. Ravenhill. I am up Ravenhill. Was. Not now. _Obviouslyonthatpart._   _PleasedontbeupbsetIdidthat_.” She was guilty and apologetic, waiting to see how Fili would respond.

He brushed a thumb through the dust turning her skin pale grey, glancing over her head to Bofur and Nori. “Why?”

“I was try for making Durins safe. Fourteen safe. _Iknowitdoesntlooklikeit._ ” She replied after a defeated exhale. Then she launched into an explanation and apology, “ _Itdoesntreallymakesensetoyou. Iknowthat. Butitdidneedtohappenok?_ I was try for make Durins safe. Make you safe.”

And it all came together for them.

With her limited language, they would not get a clearer answer, but all three could see it. She had known what the elves intended, and spent the last days, sneaking away to try to stop it. Just as she always did. She had failed and the tower fell, but she had, as she always did, put herself in the way of danger to try to keep them from harm. She should have told them, asked for help, but no doubt didn’t want to risk them.

Fili crushed her into a new embrace, and Nori slipped his hand into Bofur’s.

The fight ahead would be perilous, and their survival was uncertain, but she was on their side. Their King had his eyes closed, arms wrapped tight around their most valuable commodity, but Nori saw him barricade away the relief of her loyalty.

In time, they all found themselves sitting on a broken table, the missing legs letting them half lean onto it.

“Freya, what of Thorin? What of the gold? What of his madness? Has he descended yet into the lust that consumed Thror?” He didn’t want to ask it, but Fili was nothing less than their King. Nori would have had he been given a signal to do so. Their King did not shrink from his tasks though, and bore them on his own shoulders.

Freya puzzled at him, parsing out his words, and her face dropped.

“Oh,” She sighed, “Thorin is…. Fi…. Thorin is…. Maybe he is not good.”

Nothing changed: they knew that before, but Fili raised his chin. “And Bilbo?”

“Bilbo? Why you are asking? Bilbo is. No. No. Bilbo is good. All is good. Bilbo is -- _shitcrickets. Thebastardislesscrazythanme_. Thorin is not good. But! Bilbo is good. And….. Fili is good? _Onlyyourewearingtherobes. Idontliketherobes_.”

“Fili is just fine lass. Fili is our King now.” Bofur informed her. She looked from the miner to Nori, who concurred.  

“But? Thorin is King, no? Thorin, Uzbad undu id-abbad? No?”

The attempted khuzdul made all three dwarves smile.

And, at their King’s nod, Nori and Bofur explained their intent.

She listened intently, asking for clarification and definitions, and went quiet after. “Fili? You are good? You are promise to me? You are good?”

“I would not do this unless I was certain Freya. It is the last thing we want, but it is necessary. He must be stopped.”

Nori and Bofur watched her come to her decision. After Thorin’s miserable treatment of her, he thought it would be easy. She wrestled with it. Their king brushed his thumb over her cheek again.

“I am help.” She mumbled.

“You will help.” he corrected her, causing a relieved smile.

“Yes. Fili. I will help.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas did in fact warm to Kili after letting him catch their dinner for the next few days.

It was rather petty for an elf as old as he surely was, but since Kili knew that if he pointed that out, all of his hard work would evaporate, he ignored it in the interest of ongoing peace. He’d be a politician yet. His amad would be so proud. Already smoothing the way for the inevitable storm that would rise over his adoration of Tauriel.

Adoration. Ha.

There wasn’t any reason to pretend it wasn’t love. It was. He had said so. She had said so. Repeatedly. At length. Not that they had done anything untoward. He really wanted to do something untoward, just, not while in the wild and in need of a bath.

And yet, they were not mentioning such to Legolas.

Something about him being protective of her, and being too fast and too temperamental for her to trust Kili would survive the revelation.

So the hit to Kili’s pride as an archer was inconsequential.

That was also why he was sitting with the elf while they cleaned the ground fowl and waited for Tauriel to return from scouting the area they chose as a campsite. Speed while travelling did little good if they did not know where to go, and thus far, they had lost the orcs’ trail four times. None of the three were willing to admit their failing, so none of the three mentioned it. At all. They just searched harder, each intent on being the one to pick the trail up and lead them to success.

They were well to the north of the mountain, and while Kili could have seen it as a distant smudge from a tall tree on a clear day, there was no time for that.  

Whatever optimism he carried as they left Erebor eroded down to a mild alarm the longer they went without finding the orcs. Any of the three could have tracked them. Should have been able to was perhaps the better way to think of it. That they had yet to spot more than brief stretches of the trail was, put lightly; discouraging.

And even what they found pointed in two directions.

One made for the north still, and was the one they had chosen to pursue, but there had been signs of a small portion of the group splitting, heading into the Misty Mountains.

Orcs were declared to be the greater danger than Goblins, and as none of the three was willing to separate, on they went.

Still.

“We can always go back and chase the other trail.” Kili broke their usual silence.

Legolas jumped and turned, but his knife resumed its task a moment later.

“Giving up so soon dwarf?”

“My name is Kili, is your memory that poor?”

“The orcs travelled north, and it is likely their goal was Angmar and Mount Gundabad.”

The elf liked to act so superior. He liked to poke at Kili’s temper by treating him like a child. Tauriel always helped him keep to good behavior.

Tauriel wasn’t nearby just then.

So Kili did what he and Fili used to do whenever visiting dwarves treated them like that: Channeled their uncle.

“Then it’s a long march before they’d return, and we should look to the threat that’s closer to hand. That other group headed for the Misty Mountains. When we came through, they were swarming over with goblins, and they were working with the orcs.” Dropping the playful tone never stopped amusing Kili. Neither did the tiny bit of startlement that showed up on an elf’s features when they were astonished. Tauriel’s was cuter. Legolas’ was still funny. It was a better game when his brother was nearby. They were terrors together, and would abruptly shed all of their youthfulness to behave like Thorin.

And Kili wasn’t going to think about how much he missed his brother.

Everyone was always shocked. Often into honesty.

Legolas was no exception.

While he was gaping, Kili continued, “An army of goblins is not the most intelligent foe we might face, but they are numerous and could overwhelm the men of the lake with ease.”

“We are here to protect our own people.”

Kili grinned, “Don’t let Tauriel hear you say that, elfling, she’ll not forgive it. A dozen orcs entered Laketown and the guard barely shifted. None in the town would survive a full assault.”

“You claim to know her better than I do?”

He shrugged. Kili didn’t intend to say why he thought so.

“I have known Tauriel since she was a child, long before your ancestors began to fall into ruin, before your father’s father was born. We have stood as wardens of the forest and she has stood as captain of the forest guard since before you were born. We know more of the capacity of the Men of the Lake than you. We know more of war than you ever will.”

“But you were fine with letting the Dragon nap next door?” Behaving like his kingly uncle tweaked Legolas, but returning to quips and jokes infuriated him. “Worried you’d lose to it? She wasn’t. She’s not afraid of anything.”

“No,” Legolas answered, abruptly uncomfortable, “No she is not, and it is neither safe nor wise for her to live so.”

“You want her to be afraid?”

“I want her to be safe.”

That opened a bit of sympathy. Kili finished cleaning the bird and spitted it over their fire. That was the same voice that Fili used when he thought Kili couldn’t hear him. That was how Balin talked about Dwalin in a battle. That was the way that Nori talked about Ori. The way that Dori talked about everyone.

He’d be lying if he said that he hadn’t worried that Legolas had some affection for Tauriel, but the stony declaration was a brother defending his sister. Which, yes, was a benefit in that it eliminated one potential challenge. But on the other hand, facing down a protective older brother, of any race, was daunting. Hopeful lovers would fade away. Siblings never did. Siblings stayed by each other while the world burned down. Siblings were terrifying in defense of each other.

No wonder Tauriel hadn’t wanted Legolas to know what was between them yet.

Oh.

He remembered how grateful and bewildered Legolas had been as he arrived in Erebor. He recalled the guilt Tauriel showed when Legolas spoke to her. He finally understood why she had been so conflicted.

“Tauriel would never forgive either of us for keeping her out of a fight she wanted to join.” He said at last. “You’ve known her longer than me, but I knew that about her before you lot got us back to those cells.”

“You are not wrong.” Damned elf refused to say it the other way.

“She’s very loyal to you.”

“She abandoned us to follow your Company and fight a dragon. If you had a care for her safety, you would have prevented it.”

“She went with us because the risk of the dragon attacking your home was more than she could bear.” Kili corrected. “And you don’t know her as well as you claim to if you think anyone could have stopped Tauriel once she made her choice.”

And that was it, the wedge that got past Legolas’ facade of implacability.

“Tauriel has always been determined.” He said with a smile.

“Dwarves would call it something else.”

“Many elves do as well.”

He didn’t ask. They were talking amicably. Kili would have let the elf insult his mother if it meant the mood would not break. He and Tauriel needed allies. She was insistent about that. So, Kili smiled, and waited, rewarded by a grudging but earnest question about the arrowheads Kili used.

He was happy to answer.

By the time Tauriel returned from checking the perimeter of the camp, the birds were burnt on one side and uncooked on the other. They hadn’t been looked at since they began to truly talk, and Kili basked in her delighted smile for their new friendship. The trail would be found soon, and until then, Kili knew he had done at least one thing right.

  


* * *

 

 

Bilbo could see what the Mountain was going to be. It was nothing yet, it was still faded and broken and dark and dank, but he could see the potential. Walking through the corridors was less intimidating, and more encouraging. The lanterns were dark yet, the buildings shattered and hollow, and he still felt a bit of rapture at seeing it all. The walls would be rebuilt, new handrails would be designed and fashioned. The rubble would clear away and the damage would vanish. Hanging lights would sparkle in the distance like stars, and closer ones would dance about in resident’s hands, like fireflies in the night sky. It would warm, and it would heal, and it would be a home to a people that had lacked one for too long.

His shift in mood was, without doubt, attributed to the twin braids hanging in his hair. With beads. Thorin’s beads. Placed there by Thorin’s hands while the sop of a dwarf whispered the sweetest things Bilbo ever heard, and listed every way Bilbo patched the holes in his chest.

It was entirely overwhelming.

They had claimed a quiet chamber away from the cautious glances of the others, and Bilbo let lie his fears for the night. Rather than talk of the risks at the heels, Bilbo listened to Thorin’s declarations of love, and melted into a pile of something that once owned a spine. Then, to retaliate, he explained, in detail, punctuated by soft kisses, exactly what he said on Lithe, kneeling in Elrond’s garden. Thorin’s blush was a marvelous reward, and the longer Bilbo talked about blooms and their meanings, the deeper the blush grew.

Bilbo told him everything he meant, and everything he hoped for, and admitted with a mirroring blush, that they had, by Hobbit standards, been engaged for some months. Then Thorin explained that he had spent that night trying to ask for an official courtship. They had simply been speaking different languages, and not seen what the other found so obvious.

After rather a lot of damp eyed kissing, Thorin declared that they would not be telling that to the others. Any others anywhere, at any time. He had a reputation to uphold, after all.

The braiding wasn’t the ceremony that Thorin would have wanted. It wasn’t the soft night in a garden Bilbo would have wanted. But, they had each other, and they had no more deceits between them, and there was nothing that would sway Bilbo from his intention. He would protect his dwarf, and the braids he wore only made that simpler.

So, Bilbo was far more cheerful than normal as he walked through Erebor with Thorin.

They both were. In a few hours, perhaps after lunch, Bilbo would sit Thorin down, and clearly explain how wrong his beloved, moronic dwarf was regarding his nephew and the others, but he did not want to spoil the moment. Not right then.

It was greedy, selfish as anything he had ever done, but Bilbo wanted to hold onto their moment of quiet, calm contentment. Then they would return to being responsible, and Bilbo would not let Thorin fall back on faith and trust. Bilbo was absolutely certain that the only one unaffected by the mountain was himself. Freya had been a possible ally despite the persistent staring, until she blew up part of the mountain. That rapidly removed her from his list.

Thorin was trying, and was at least, conscious that some days he would turn vacant and lovestruck to the gold, and fail to answer questions. It didn’t match the stories that Bilbo had heard of the madness of Durin’s line, but it didn’t match the Thorin he knew either. Rather, it was more like the forest where Thorin shook aside the malaise of that place through sheer force of will. This was no different. In Mirkwood, Thorin held fast while the others faltered.

Bilbo had to believe it was the same in Erebor.

Terrifying as it was, he and Thorin would have to drag the rest back to their senses. Probably one at a time.

It did not sound pleasant.

His exhaustion with the prospect slipped out, and Bilbo’s weary groan stopped Thorin’s feet.

“What is it, kurdue?”

“We can speak of it later, Thorin.”

“I would rather hear it now.”

They were in a large chamber, somewhere between the gate and what Thorin said was the royal palace. He truly did not want to spoil their morning, and the tender smile that preceded their walk. There was no telling what Thorin’s reaction would be if the goldlust were to rise up mid conversation. There was no other choice.

“The others.”

“What of them?”

“They aren’t well. None of them. Fili least of all. I know he is your heir, and I know you wish to trust him, have faith in him, but he is not well. You have not seen-- Thorin, you have been blinded by loyalty, and I do not know what they intend, but it is nothing you will like.”

“This is why you wanted my braids? Because you think us all afflicted?” It was affection not outrage, and Bilbo nodded.

Thorin grew pensive as Bilbo watched, weighing the accusation more earnestly than before. He was a half dozen paces away, deep in thought, and Bilbo let him, despite the chill of apprehension on his neck. The ring in his pocket found its way into his hand, a small comfort against the chance that he was in danger. If necessary, he could escape the mountain, find Bard, find Gandalf, find someone, and help the company from the outside. It would break Thorin for him to do so, but Bilbo would if necessary.

No. It would break both of them, and possibly whatever was between them. Bilbo would do it anyway. Bilbo would have smashed the Arkenstone to dust if it was needed to keep those idiots safe.

He frowned.

He sounded like Freya.

Confound it all.

Still true.

“Whatever their objections may be,” Thorin declared, “I remain their king. Whether they see the sense of it or not, we will join with the Master and the Elf-King and we will find a way to ally ourselves against the threats we know approach. If my kin has objection to that, they will keep it to themselves, and obey me. Whatever effect the gold may have, whatever temptation it may carry, I am their king. They have followed me for years through harsher times than this, and never turned aside. They have followed me into battle, and into despair, and they will not stand against me.”

“Thorin…” That hardly even made sense to Bilbo, and he wasn’t bamboozled by a cursed treasure horde.

“No. Bilbo. They will not. I will meet with Thranduil and the Master, and we will find a way to peace, even if the cost is a portion of what is rightly ours.”

“Thorin. Please. You aren’t listening to me.” Bilbo cut off in a squeak, as his mind froze and his chest seized.

Ice ran through his veins.

His eyes locked on the faces standing behind Thorin. Every member of the Company, Fili at the fore, stood with shaded eyes and weapons in hand.

Confusion overtook the obstinacy of Thorin’s expression, and he turned to find the cause.

Orcrist sang as it left the sheath.

Bilbo clutched tighter at the ring.

His hand found Sting on his hip.

This couldn’t be happening.

Fili lifted one of his blades, aiming the point more in warning than a threat at Thorin’s chest. Two paces apart, Bilbo knew it could end faster than he would see it.

“What are you doing, rayad?” Thorin’s voice cracked.

“Honoring my vows.” Fili’s did not. “I will not allow you to betray us.”

“Ingadan…”

“Don’t. We heard you. If you will not listen to reason, this is our only choice.”

Orcrist rose slowly, from a guarded angle across his chest, to a counter threat. It was directed at Fili, and did not waver. The others were waiting, but left the moment to the prince.

Bilbo couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He could only stare at the Company, horrified by the callous mistrust they displayed.

The tension mounted, and he garbled a word, trying to disrupt them before they crossed into violence.

Fili did not shift, but the others raised weapons.

Bofur stepped forward, mattock in hand. “We’ve heard you turning him around himself, burglar.”

“All Master Baggins has done is remind me of what matters.” The strain of Thorin’s voice betrayed his fear.

“Like giving away the treasures of our people to the elves? To pay them off to avoid a fight?”

“We need them.”

“We are dwarves, uncle!” Fili roared, “Have you forgotten that? Have you forgotten how they betrayed us? You would allow them to take what they wish, to take what is ours! I will not! This mountain is ours and ours alone. The gold is oursssss.”

Bilbo shuddered with the drop from rage to sibilant intimidation. The company echoed it in looks and muted growls. He had talked them out of a cookpot, and riddled with a dragon. He had persuaded the men of the Laketown and the elves of Rivendell. Bilbo had no words, and nothing in his mind save the pounding beat of terror as Thorin’s nephew hissed an echo of Smaug’s malevolence.

“I am your king, rayad.”

Virulent and cold, a smile overtook Fili’s anger. “No you aren’t. Not any longer.” He reached into the furs he wore, and pulled out the Arkenstone. “The King’s Jewel. The rallying cry for all dwarves. Who do you think they will answer to when they arrive? You or I?” The gleaming stone disappeared again.

Shaking, Bilbo fell back by a step. He could not see Thorin’s face, but he saw the pain in the slump of his shoulders and the tremor of the blade in his hand. The others were immovable, unfeeling, and so, so wrong. Bilbo knew they were not well. He had seen that. He thought he understood. He had not not known the depths of it. They should have fled. Bilbo should have taken Thorin the day before and fled to Dale with Bard. It was his fault for not bringing the question out sooner, for allowing Thorin to believe his nephew was well when all the while he was rotting from the inside.

The company turned to him as he drew Sting, and walked, calm as anything, to stand between them.

They never let him get there.

Thorin heard him, and would not allow the risk. The company saw him, and moved to end the fight before it began.

No fighter could withstand an attack from eleven dwarves.

Thorin tried.

Bilbo was cut off from him in seconds.

He could only help Thorin by hurting the others.

He could slip on the ring, vanish, and fell all eleven before they found him. Grab Thorin’s hand and flee this accursed mountain. Retrace their steps until the Shire swallowed them into obscurity and safety. Bilbo could keep them safe that long. Unseen, he could be the support Thorin needed. Protected by the ring, he could protect his love.

His chest ached at the thought while his hand shifted to wear the trinket.

Thorin cried out as a blow caught, and Bilbo’s mind went blank. He lunged forward, uncaring of danger or threat, intent on nothing but reaching Thorin’s side.

Freya stopped him. Her knife knocked Sting aside, and she crashed into him.

She wasn’t looking at the chaos of the fight. Eyes wider than his own, grimacing, teary, she caught his wrists, as her blade fell to the ground, and spun them so he was pinned to her chest. Her hand clapped over his mouth, while the other wrapped around his waist. She didn’t hurt him, or resist when he scrabbled at her arms and kicked at her shins.

He had to get to Thorin.

Of course Frey was on Fili’s side. Their madcap seer had never understood, had never been sane. She stood by their side and Thorin was alone. He had to get away. He had to get to Thorin.

A sob, quieter than the clang of steel, stopped his escape attempts.

She choked it back, and pulled him farther from the fight. It was a whirl of weapons and shouting, but those forming the circle around Thorin did not strike him. They kept him contained as he fought his heir and nephew.

Bilbo could not see what was happening, only the stray glimpse of combat between company members.

If either intended to kill the other, it would have ended already. And what a bitter relief that was.

So he lost the will to escape, and prayed to all the Valar that neither would do something unforgivable.

Frey kept Bilbo pinned to her chest, the hand that had clamped over his mouth slackening in shock as they watched. Thorin held back the twin blades his nephew carried, some lavish things found in the treasury, using nothing but Orcrist. He didn’t even have armor except his leathers.

Even alone. Even without the rest to help, it was hopeless.  

Thorin fell to the ground, sword clattering against stone. How, Bilbo did not see. He only saw a glance of Thorin’s face; betrayed and confused and hurt, before Dwalin and Dori dragged him to his feet.

Freya dragged them to the edge of the room, out of sight, keeping him hidden, keeping him safe, and the Company never looked to them in the aftermath.

There was no blood on the ground, and that was the only comfort of the encounter. Balin stepped closer to Fili, where he was unflinching and proud. His golden hair glowing in the firelight of torches, the robes swept in arrogant magnificence around him, his swords still in hand as he calmed his breathing, Fili watched his uncle be dragged away.

Balin spoke in khuzdul that Bilbo did not understand, and Fili bent his head.

A thick crown, wrought in black and gold, shaped like raven wings, settled on Fili’s brow.

Frey shuddered.

He felt her pulse thundering, even through the mithril.

Fili nodded to the dwarves remaining around him, who had fallen to one knee, heads bowed low in reverence.

“Uzbade.” They whispered, one at a time.

Then they left, never looking behind, never realizing he and Frey were still there, too lost in their minds, and their own success at usurping the rightful king.

When their footsteps faded she let go of him, but he did no more than to turn to look at her. Hands trembling in front of her mouth, she slid along the wall to the ground, whispering in her foreign tongue.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is going smoothly isn't it? All perfectly smooth, nothing to be concerned about here. Nope. Not a thing. la la dee da...... Okay but seriously, I still think this thing is only going to be 34, _maybe_ 35 chapters, so........ buckle up my darlings. Know that I adore you, and trust me to see you through this. And if you can hope for me to be doing less crazy overtime that'd be grand.
> 
> Also someone please send Frey a box of cookies, she both needs and deserves them. 
> 
>  (Btw, you can always come find me on Tumblr: Striving-Artist. I can't imagine you're happy with me, but I'll gladly clarify things if you ask, I think this is a confusing time in the fic)
> 
> **Khuzdul:**
> 
> Uzbade : My King  
> Kun, ‘idbalul aztâk. : Yes, Not the easiest task.  
> Ak aktibi zûr : But I know how.  
> Uzbad undu id-abbad : King Under the Mountain  
> Kurdue : My heart  
> Rayad : Heir  
> Ingadan : Near son


	30. Unforgivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are unlikely escapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to give you excuses, just the explanation. I've worked overtime every week since I last published, and the holidays are really hard for me. Also. I finished my original novel, which I think I really will be publishing right when this fic concludes. But no more stalling you, you deserve this chapter you wonderful beautiful readers.

There had been several occasions since arriving in a heap in Hobbiton that Frey had questioned how brain damaged the Valar were for thinking she was even remotely capable of dealing with the bullshit of fixing the damn quest. More than several. A lot. It was basically a daily thing for her. Like how she missed coffee. For a while there her life consisted of walking, doubting the Valar, and wishing she had a goddamn french press.

But. Somewhere, the Valar had to be looking down at her and cursing their terrible choice of champion.

Because she’d fucked up worse than usual.

Frey, upon seeing Fíli draw a weapon on Thorin, upon realizing how colossally horribly, miserably, entirely she had fucked everything up: tackled Bilbo. That was to save his life, not that it had looked that way to him. Or the Dwarves, who thought she was subduing him for imminent torture, arrest or murder.

It was for his own good.

They’d have attacked him or killed him or something and that seemed like a bad idea, so she jumped on him and hoped Thorin hadn’t taught him how to use Sting yet. Maybe he was just too shocked, but she didn't get stabbed.

As soon as her dwarves -- No. Not hers anymore. Not if they were like this. As soon as _the_ dwarves left, her brain turned to applesauce and she sat shaking, stunned to silence in a corner for what she would guess was an hour. Bilbo, being just as broken and hurt, stayed nearby. He’d realized after she fell apart that it hadn’t been a threat.

It could have been worse. Thorin or Bilbo could have died. So it wasn’t a catastrophe. Sure, the game had just escalated from a jog to the finish with just one roughly Orc-shaped challenge left to conquer, to something more like scaling Kílimanjaro in a bikini while attacked by sharks. While on fire. In winter. On a unicycle.

But no one was dead yet, so it could have been worse.

Yeah, she was clutching at straws.

However, given her preference, she would have bowed out, fallen asleep in a pile of snotty fur and tears, and woken up in the real world while the Valar found someone even half competent to pinch hit the final inning. She wanted to close her eyes as Freya, madcap moron that had just broken canon in new and terrible ways, and wake up as, well, as Carol again. Boring, ignorant, simple, and not responsible for anyone’s life. Not even her own. She was still on her mom’s insurance. Not that she was her anymore. The name that fell out of her mouth on impulse when Lindir asked felt right around her now. It felt like her. Arda felt right. Like she was meant to be there. She wanted to stay. She wanted to stay as much as she wanted to protect the dwarves even if it would upset her family. She wanted to stay.

Not that she deserved to stay. So, she wanted to go home and put her faith in canon’s habit of reasserting itself. The Durins would even have a better chance with her warnings.

Frey never got what she wanted.

She knew that.

After an hour of cyclic self-reprobation, the Flight half of her instincts stopped begging her to listen, and her old friend Fight stepped up to bat.

Because like fuck was she letting this get any worse.

An hour of sobbing was more than she deserved for self pity and general patheticness. She was the one to fuck it up. She was going to be the one to fix it.

It boiled in her stomach, a horrid pool of furious guilt. It was noxious and painful, and entirely justified. It wrapped around her, comfortable and reliable, grounding her clear to the center of the Earth. It was loud enough to override the previous thrum of nausea that started when Fíli threatened Thorin; when his face turned to something unlike himself, when he became, in an instant, violent and irrational; when the world gave her a neon sign pointing out what she had missed before.

It sucked she didn’t see it earlier.

Beneath the tear streaks, her cheeks burned, ashamed of how blinded she was by how she felt about that dwarf.

“Bilbo.” She didn’t bother pretending to ask, “You are help me. Help me make fourteen safe.”

“If you have not _noticedquite_ what is _happening_ here, Freya, they do not want to be safe. They _seeminglyintend_ to go to war with the elves.” The bastard snarked his answer at her.

“Yes. So the fuck what? They want war. Fine. We stop it.”

She hadn’t managed to stand, and was probably still gaunt and pasty and she was definitely trembling. Bilbo could shove the judgey face. He was no better. He also had a bit of pink around his mouth, probably from her initial panicked grabbing. Neither of them looked capable of what she was suggesting, not by miles.

Nothing for it.

There, on the floor of a random room in Erebor, the pair of them held each other’s eyes, taking deep, long breaths by unspoken consensus until they found a shred of calm. Then built an oasis of silence and support and made their decision.

As if the other had ever really been an option.

Bilbo found his happy place sooner than she did, and launched into a planning offensive before she was ready for it.

“You cannot See now, can you?” She heard him push the word, and shook her head, contrite. “When?”

The full, nuanced answer to that was longer than his tolerance would withstand, so she resorted to the easiest one. “When Smaug is made dead.”

Because that changed too much, and basically threw the game board off the table.

His mouth dropped and his hands opened and closed in frustrated astonishment. By the time his teeth clicked shut again, she was ready for an outburst.

“Not all.” She cut him off, “Bilbo. You are listen? Not all. I See things, and I not See some things. I See Smaug in Esgaroth, but Esgaroth was not for where he is dead. I See Azog at Erebor. I See Arkenstone and dwarves are angry. I See battle. I See Dain.”

“Do not say it.”

“King of Erebor. Dain.” Never mind that she had changed plenty of things and stabbed Azog a bit. Canon was a cancerous mother fucker and she would take no risks. “Fíli. Kíli. Thorin? In battle with Azog and Bolg? Durins Are Dead. And I -- fuck that shit with a hot curling iron -- I did not work this hard. I did not do all this just to -- Bilbo. No. Dead. Durins.”

“Frey. Why did you help Fíli hurt Thorin?” He cut into her tirade.

She melted down, scrubbing at her eyes. Cards on the table. “Because that…  I am not see that. I am not see Fíli and Thror. I was see... Thorin and Thror. So I thought that it was just fucking dandy and I was just being paranoid and weird because he wasn’t translating as much and then I blew that off because he was probably just worried about Thorin and you can just put that look away Bilbo. You don’t need to look at me with the judgey fucking eyes, I am way ahead of you on that count. I know better than you do how bad this is, and if it’s Fíli that went crazy then it’s almost definitely Directly My Fault.”

Then she groaned as her lapse into english proved useless. Like herself.

“I am not see Fíli and Thror. I am sorry. I am -- was see -- I saw Thorin.” She peeked between her fingers at the now outraged hobbit, “Bilbo? Please? Thorin is good? Is not Thror? Is fine? I cocked this up?”

“Thorin…. Wants to be fine.”

“Better than Fíli, usurper and damn near kinslayer. Which, if he does, he’ll never forgive himself for. He will march his dumbass into battle and get himself dead, just like his uncle did in some kind of fucked up penitence bullshit. Fandom got that shit spot on. Twat-cocked overly loyal asshole. Well. Twat-blocked now I guess. Cause: like fuck is that happening.”

She scrubbed her nails over her scalp, pretending it wasn’t as disgusting as it was, and caught on the bits of matted braid Fíli must have done while she slept like the dead cuddled into his chest unaware he was mad as a bag of cats. And, once again, she started picking them out. Fanfiction could be wrong, braids could mean nothing, but they meant something to her about love and alliance. So. They had to go.

Bilbo watched.

“Those were from Fíli?” She nodded. “You know what they are?”

“Braids,” she replied drily.

“Freya.”

She looked up, pinning Bilbo with her glare to answer, “Yes, I know.”

Bilbo shut up while she finished tying them back into the pony tails she’d done while tromping toward a mountain and a dragon.

“We are needing a plan, Bilbo.”

“We need Thorin.”

“Yes. And we will go get that dumbass dwarf out of his cell or room or wherever they put him. But we need a goddamn plan.” At Bilbo’s irritated blink, she tried again in westron, “We need plan now. Thorin is in plan. Thorin is for to be safe. Now? We need plan for make how.”

“We three, You, me and Thorin. We can run.”

“Optimism. Great, cute, but not exactly helpful. Fíli is send words for Dain. Dain is come with army. Thranduil is come with army. Esgaroth is come with army.”

“Fíli will not fight them. It would be _utterlyhopeless_.”

Frey wanted to tell him that was true. Wanted to reassure him that Fíli wouldn’t be that stupid. Except, well. See above, Thorin and the battle and the Arkenstone and Bilbo and the ledge. Fili would be exactly that stupid. But Bilbo was a smart bastard, and he’d see the connection between what she thought Fíli would do, and where she was getting her information. After so long worrying about Thorin hurting Bilbo, he’d assume every guess she made was a condemnation, and might panic about his dwarf-king-boyfriend.

Nothing for it.

“Fíli will. He will make a war with elves. With men. Dain is help for him. He is want war.”

“Then… why do you say Dain will be King?”

“Because orcs, dude. Orcs. Wargs. I really need to learn the word for bats. Because yeaugh. Goblins. Giant fuck off worm things. Shit’s gonna go down. And we need a united front. We are need for men, elves and dwarves fighting ---shit what’s the word -- fighting pile? nope, fighting for one?”

“Fighting together. We need them to _closeranks_ and face the _enemyforces_ as one.” Bilbo mumbled, she missed his point, and Frey waited for him to look up. “Thorin. He can do that. Thorin can talk to them. Thranduil. Dain. The Master. He can do that. He is a King. He is the King. He is _capableofpersuading_ them.”

“Nooooo. He needs must having Arkenstone. Must needs to go from Erebor to Dale. Thorin not Fíli. And fourteen are not say yes for that.”

The hobbit’s face pinched, gnawing on the thought, and looking like he was solving a riddle. That was good. Bilbo was good at riddles.

“Fíli has the Arkenstone, yes?”

Frey nodded. He’d slipped it into Thror’s robe like a great treasure, and she knew what that meant. Stupid evil rock of bad decisions.

“I have the ring.”

Frey nodded and tamped down the upswell of want. The low-grade panic attack over Fíli’s insanity was doing wonders to help her ignore the ringlust.

“I will get Thorin. You will get the stone.”

Terrible plan. Awful. Miserable. Her going to see Fíli was not going to go well. Hiding emotions wasn’t her forte. Wasn’t even her second string skill. She wasn’t a spy. She wasn’t even sneaky. He’d see exactly what she was trying to do and then she’d get dead.

And then she’d be back home again. Maybe.

Either she’d manage to help, or it would be game over.

Anxiety thundered in her veins and tightened her throat. It also got pushed away. No time for it. After all, she had fucked things up. She had to fix it.

She nodded.

Tried to smile.

Pretended, for his sake.

“We are make dead Smaug. This? It is fine.”

Maybe if she repeated that enough she’d get confused and believe it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Perhaps it was still surprising to the dwarves, but Bilbo was, in fact, quite an exceptional burglar despite coming to the trade so recently. Trolls notwithstanding. For near a month he was unnoticed by the elves and the elves were infinitely more observant than the motley troop following his king. Bofur and Nori rose to greet Balin and Bombur, and Bilbo slipped by, heading for the door at the end of the hall.

The dwarves didn’t want anyone speaking to the rightful king they had overthrown, so they were out of earshot, confident in the construction of the room they chose as a cell.

Not that it was a cell.

It seemed to be part of a palace. If a palace was underground and attached to all the buildings around it. Bilbo had never read about royal dwarven living domiciles. Elves were fond of open air, and men favored columned chambers, but that was hardly relevant. Dwarves did as they pleased.

He waited, invisible and silent, outside the door until the new guards eased into their roles, chatting and paying no attention to their charge.  Small noises of grief and pain from beyond the door were a torment, but Bilbo waited until he was sure. This plan of his would only succeed if both he and Frey played their parts correctly. His was surely the more difficult one. Stealing a person was far more troublesome than stealing a bauble. What’s more, Fíli and the others adored her. He was labelled a threat.

Yes, his was the more difficult task.

Mahal must have disapproved of the Company’s decision though, because it was going easily, even for a hobbit as talented as he was. He had signalled Freya to move, and had reached the keys in the communal hall minutes later. He only took the one, leaving the others as a guise of normalcy.

When he deemed it safe, he found the almost invisible keyhole in the fretwork along the doorframe, inserted the key, and praised dwarven ingenuity when it opened silently, nearly two centuries after it was last serviced.

Thorin’s dismay, and the sculpture he held, drooped when the door moved without anyone in sight.

Bilbo smiled softly as he slipped the ring from his finger, only to be engulfed in a hug that drove the air and tension from his chest. Thorin was praying, or something near to it, grateful words spilling out in a mess of khuzdul and westron. He was security and safety, and Bilbo gulped that down. For his part, Thorin seemed to rebuild himself around the realization that Bilbo was alive and well.

Of course the others hadn’t told him that Bilbo was unharmed. It seemed like they forgot he existed the moment he was out of sight.

“I have to say Thorin, that you only contracted me as a burglar, and I do seem to find myself rescuing you more often than I’d care to. We shall have to renegotiate my payment when all is said and done.” The tone, imperious and so serious it couldn’t be truthful, dragged an honest smile to his dwarf’s face. “There you are Thorin. I quite disapprove of that look you had when I came in, I should prefer you avoid it in the future. No more needing rescue, do you hear me? This is getting quite bothersome.”

“The others…”

“It is not your fault.” He interrupted, tone turning kind, “Freya -- well, she seems to have noticed a bit later than we would have liked, but she protected me while they took you away. Still haven’t decided if I’ll forgive her for making me watch that. But, she did. She and I spoke, and have a plan. One that I am certain you will not appreciate.”

“I cannot harm my nephew.” Thorin’s voice cracked.

It didn’t need to be said. Thorin’s love of his nephews was what allowed the company to bring him down in the first place. Even if it saw him dead, Thorin could not bring himself to harm Fíli or Kíli.

“No one is going to harm him. We are going to leave. Freya is retrieving the stone so there can be no comment that you are not the king. Apparently the others called for Dain, and unless you go out there and stop it, everyone will fall to war. So that’s what we shall do. There is an opening in the stone further down the hall, and I have already stolen away your weapons.”

Thorin gaped.

“No need to be so surprised Thorin, I got you away from Thranduil and his entire kingdom, now I shall sneak you away from the Company.”

“Tauriel and Kíli’s ill advised infatuation was responsible for that escape, was it not?”  Bilbo beamed at the tone, as challenging and bristly as Thorin had ever been; it was a drop of normal in the surreal course the world had taken. Grinning at his own barb, Thorin set their foreheads together, brushing his nose against Bilbo’s. “How did I ever come to deserve you, kurduê?”

“Oh you haven’t yet. You’ll have to try very hard after all this is over.”

“So I will.” Thorin found the beads hanging in Bilbo’s hair, placed less than a day earlier, and his face crumpled into pain again. “Tell me of this plan you have formed with the Seer that directed my nephew to his mistakes.”

“No. Don’t be like that Thorin. She didn't know. She should have, she knows she should have, but she didn’t see how -- and how often has she warned that you would be lost to goldsickness since we met her? You have worried -- don’t do that Thorin. She didn’t want to see what was happening to them -- to him -- just as you didn’t, and for the same reason.” Bilbo huffed, pulled his forehead away, and caught Thorin’s hands. “The plan we came to, and we hardly had much time to think about it, is this. She is retrieving the stone. I am retrieving you. She will make a distraction deeper in the mountain and meet us at the statue with the broken axe. All of us will climb over the wall and you will negotiate a treaty with the men and the elves. When Dain arrives, you will speak to him, with the stone and -- and your consort at your side, and prevent him joining the others. Eventually Gandalf will return from wherever it is he’s gone to, and he can help the others.”

Thorin shook his head, still fascinated by Bilbo’s braids.

“We cannot leave them alone.”

“We must.”

“They are not thinking clearly. Someone must stay. Freya. She is trusted. They will hear her recommendation, and she can attempt to steer them from the most dangerous paths.”

“We may need her to persuade the elves or men. The Arkenstone may not be proof enough for any but Dain. Besides that, if they find out what she has done to help you escape, I don’t think that trust would last long.”

“Then they must not find out.” Thorin answered, “She has kept herself safe through persuasion throughout our association with her. She has successfully talked her way into our company, into the good graces of the elves, into further danger with the goblins, into our collective residence with Beorn, and into my nephew’s affections. She is as well suited to this task as any could hope to be. Combined with her sight, she is the only choice.”

Bilbo glared, and elected not to inform the idiot he loved that she no longer had the gift of Sight. “I’ll have to remind you that I talked around three trolls and kept the lot of us from being eaten.”

“So you did, Master Burglar, but I do not think that there is any action you could take that would persuade the others to believe that your loyalty did not lie with me.”

In response to that unrestrained adoration, Bilbo mumbled something about stabbing him in the leg and seeing what they thought about him then. It brought a fresh smile to Thorin’s face.

They could waste no more time, and slipped out of the room, down the opposite direction from the guards, to the crack in a wall he found earlier. That brought them to the stash of clothing and weapons Bilbo had squirrelled away. The air in the forgotten room was stale and dusty, keeping them quiet while the rightful king of Erebor prepared to sneak away in the dark of night like a criminal. Eventually the others would realize Thorin had escaped. Despite the door they closed behind them, the others  would notice at some point, and Bilbo only hoped it happened after they had slipped over the wall.

First, Freya had to be updated to their intention. She was no longer going with them, and would need to stay at Fíli’s side, attempting to direct him to more rational paths while Thorin negotiated a peace with the Elves.

“Thorin, I’ve not had anyone else I could ask since even Balin has lost himself to the gold -- is this normal? Is this what afflicted your grandfather? Is this what I should have been forced to see happen to you?”

Hesitantly, Thorin agreed, “Yes, and then again, no. My grandfather fell to goldsickness, known among our people, and particularly common among Durin’s line. The company seems to have fallen to that malady. They are easily convinced of any conspiracy against the gold, and are blind to simple needs. It is not unbreakable, and a larger threat on the horizon is likely to bring them to their senses once more. I should have thought that there had been plenty to arrest their illness. I was wrong. Fíli is affected by something more malevolent.”

“The dragon.”

“The dragon. There are few cases of any living being speaking to a dragon and surviving, but there are rumors hidden in the oldest of tales of the effects that it might have.”

“Frey and I spoke to Smaug as well. We haven’t -- well, I at least haven’t lost myself like your nephew has.”

“I do not know. Nor can I say that the same anger and distrust would not have consumed me had I taken Fíli’s place that day. Both of them were close enough to touch the worm during their flight, and the evil of dragons is impossible to predict.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to press the issue, wanting to know more, wanting to know how to help, but the sound of the Company nearby silenced him, and they began the trek to the meeting point.

  


* * *

 

 

The plan required that she move at almost the same moment that Bilbo did. The window was narrow and if either of them were noticed, the other would never succeed. Bilbo gave the signal and Frey walked past Ori and Dwalin to find the paranoid dwarf she needed to pickpocket. They nodded to her, but paid her no attention. Fíli trusted her, so they did too. So much so that they didn’t see how hard she was clenching her hands or the way she couldn’t breathe properly.

Fíli was in the armory, as Dori and Óin had told her.

So, right on the edge of the room, aware that this was one of the rare places that matched the movie, Frey froze, awash in guilt.

It was torturous. Necessary, horrible, awful torture, and she couldn’t make herself stop. She should have seen it sooner. She should have noticed that he wasn’t himself and done something about it while there was still something to be done.

That ship had sailed.

Out the harbor, across the sea, into the sunset, gone. By- bye ship.

Watching him dig through shelves and heaps of various sparkly objects and weapons, that was plain. There was everything shy of skywriting over his head, which Frey willfully ignored for a few weeks in favor of stealing quiet moments with him where she pretended that she could keep him. It was easier to focus on Thorin. Besides, fanon had been right about so many things. How could they be wrong about him? She wanted to blame the ring and its influence, but that sounded like an excuse. She didn’t deserve that luxury. She was the only person to know the risks, and still hadn’t protected him.

Sitting with Bilbo, it had seemed straightforward, if difficult to manage. She assumed while walking across Erebor that the failure would be in her skillset, not in her willingness to try.

Wrong again.

The light from the torch in his hand back-lit him, giving him a wreath of ruddy gold. The fur and the crown obscured his face and hair, and he could have been anyone. Thror or Thorin or Gollum, or some mindless orc, set on their task and hunched with the intensity of it. Frey had spent a long while trying not to admit how much he meant to her. The way her stomach flipped watching him, the way she wanted to knock him upside the head and drag him out of the mountain, despite the risk, the way his corruption shook her to the core? That nailed that coffin shut.

And now that she was no longer lying to herself, she couldn’t tell him because he was working with only half the lights on upstairs.

“Fíli?”

He looked up for a moment, pale eyes flashing in distrust, then sorted through the piles faster.

“What you are doing?”

“Armor. You need armor.”

“No. I don’t, Fí.”

“Yes, you do.” His torch wedged between two shields, and a helmet too big for her in hand, he closed the distance. “You are not safe. When we _confrontedthatvile_ dwarf you were _whollyunprotected._ _Unacceptable._ The Hobbit _couldhave_ hurt you. _”_

“Fíli, I am fine. Was fine. Am fine now.”

“I will not let them hurt you. The men of the _Lakemarchedupon_ the mountain. When they _learnof_ your skills they will _attempttotake_ you from us. I will not _allowsuch_ a thing.”

He wasn’t violent, not directly. It was creepier for being his normal care turned sideways and perverted. He was half a step away from concern and compassion and from being Fíli. Instead, Frey forced her feet to stay in place when he leaned in and caught her arm.

“You _assisted_ us and _broughtus_ to this _victory_. The Arkenstone would still be in the hand of that traitor without your aid and your vision.”

“The Arkenstone.”

“Yes,” Backlit by the torch, his expression was feral, and his hand tucked into his coat to retrieve the stone, “The Arkenston. I am King now, Seer. And you will be with me.” The glimmering light from the damnable rock lit his face, and she swallowed a shriek. He looked tender for a moment. His words were simple and slowly spoken so she could understand them. Her hand reached for the stone, testing.

His reaction was as expected. It vanished in an instant, and he snarled before seeing her eyes again.

She would have to distract Fíli enough to steal it, and then run. Fast.

She floundered in doubt for a few minutes while he dug through piles and lifted armor and weapons to judge their size on her frame.

The thought had occurred the second she knew her goal.

It was the only advantage at her disposal.

And it was going to entirely piss him off, so she tried to find another way. Any other way.

Fíli lifted her arm to hold beside a sparkling gauntlet that was at least two inches too large in the wrist for her, and his touch was gentle.

It was going to hurt so very bad.

“Fíli?” She asked, pitching her voice lower. As long as he was alive to be disgusted by her, she would call it a success. “Fíli; uzbadu Erebor.”

She spoke with all the authority she could muster. The coiled hate in his face unwrapped, and his hand raised to her face. “ _Thanksonly_ to you marluna.”

Catching his hand in both of hers, she kissed his palm, and caught his eyes. If it worked for Bilbo, it might work for her, “Uzbadê.”

Possessive. That was the only fit way to describe his smile. Thank mercy she had gone through a dark phase reading every goldsick Thorin fic she could find. Fíli was enough like his uncle that the tricks were likely to transfer over. What came next was made easier by… no. Nothing would make it easier. Every thought and memory and action made it harder to raise to her toes and kiss him, sweeter than they had ever been, pouring out in accidental honesty what he meant to her with the press of lips.

She read enough fic to know how it was supposed to go. She planned it out as she struggled to find any other way. The fandom had been right about everything else, surely this would hold true as well. All evidence, thought, logic and fanfiction precedent said that he would be sufficiently distracted by sex or the prospect of sex that she could sneak the stone away from him. No issue. Simple. Heartbreaking, kinda scummy, somewhat grey on the matter of consent, but effective.

Her standards had lowered substantially.

She kissed him with all the tenderness she could find, hoping that it would carve through the madness and break the illness. It did not stay sweet. The gauntlet fell with a clatter, Fíli pulled her close into the ominous bulk of the cloak, and she found herself devoured. Dangerous as it was, Frey surrendered gladly to the familiar sensation of his hands on her.

She had to escalate it beyond this.

He broke the kiss with his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away. Shit. Damn. He noticed. He caught on to her horrible acting skills and she was going to get stabbed. Which was absolutely going to ruin the plan she and Bilbo put together. Also: she’d be dead. Her cheeks burned as she thought he had seen through her lies, but his hands stayed gentle. Fíli’s thumb brushed down her cheek and neck.

He was supposed to get overwhelmed and malleable. Frey had been sure. Instead he was turning soft-eyed and kind. Turning back into Fíli.

It was stupid, but she couldn’t stop herself from trying another path.

“Fíli. You are trust me?”

Foreheads pressed together, he nodded.

“You are know I want Durins safe? Erebor for dwarves and safe?”

Another nod, with a barely-there kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Fíli…?”

“What do you see? My uncle? The hobbit? Elves?” His carefully chosen words were painful to hear, so close to what she wanted, but never quite there.

“I am scared, Fíli.” She echoed her own words from Mirkwood.

The shadow in his eyes, the one that had been there so long she’d stopped noticing it, faltered for a moment. Genuine concern, not just the impression of it he put on when expected to, shone through.

“Why? I will keep you safe. Dwalin as well. You are safe.” He repeated it when she shook her head, “You are Frey. Safe. With me. You are safe.”

“Dain.”

“He will not hurt you. You are _beside_ me. You are safe.”

“No. Fíli. Not scared for me. I am scared for King Dain. I am scared for army. For Thranduil. For Men. For Azog. For fighting and you are death.”

“We are safe in Erebor.”

“You will stay in Erebor?”

He let his hands shift from her neck to her hair, playing with the strands he had braided. “What did you see?”

“If you are for leaving Erebor in battle you are death --dead-- and it is King Dain of Erebor.”

“Kíli will---”

“Kíli will dead!” She cried, “King Dain. I am say this in Hobbiton. I am say this now. Fíli. I see King Dain.”

This wasn’t the plan or anything like it.

Bilbo was going to be pissed. There would be yelling she didn’t understand. But if she could get through to him, actually get through, not just manipulate him into the actions she needed, that would be better. That would be safer. That would stop the first of the fighting when Dain arrived and it would get all their ducks in a row when Azog made whatever grand fuck off entrance he chose to make.

There was no getting around that damned orc showing up with all the drama of a pop star.

Maybe, just maybe, she would be enough to break him out the dragonsickness.

Frey was shaking, and her hands had caught in the fur of his robes. The ones that still made her sick to her stomach.

It stung to hold eye contact, but she managed, aware of tears building.

Fíli watched her, jaw set, and hands solid.

They stayed there in the armory longer than was comfortable before he finally spoke, “My braids. You do not want them?”

Dammit.

Should have noticed that before enacting a plan that involved a lot of touching. Without another choice, she dug her lies deeper. It was better than him trying to kill his uncle again.

“I am not dwarf. Dain and army in Erebor? And I am not dwarf? And I am have braids of Fíli?” She ended it with what she hoped was a wry grin. Probably looked more teary and mournful.

“Dain’s army scares you if you wear my braids?” She tripped on the grammar he used, but shrugged.

“I am not dwarf.”

The banked fire in his eyes was back. Something held in check, but eminently dangerous.

“You _havesaved_ us Frey. You are a Seer. You _riskedinjury_ and death to _bringustovictory_ . You have done more to make us safe than any other. I will not _allowthose_ who are too _buriedinpredjudice_ to doubt your accomplishments. You _deserveanything_ we can give to you.” Gaps in vocabulary to one side, he was speaking too quickly for her to fully understand him. His tone though, was determined and fiery. The kind of voice that led armies into battles. Implacable and righteous.

And for some reason, talking about her.

“I will not _permitdoubt_ of your _loyalty_ and I know of no way more _certainthanthis_.” He stepped back, warm hands trailing off her skin leaving her shivering, and surprised her.

Frey had been in Arda long enough to accept that fanon was wrong on some things. She had been there long enough to have caused some sort of butterfly effect of increasingly awful disaster. She thought that she was braced for any surprise the world could throw at her. Once again, she was wrong.

Fíli extended the Arkenstone to her in cupped hands -- an offering and a gesture of faith that dropped like a weight in her stomach.

He trusted her enough to hold the most valuable, most sacred object in the damned mountain. He was open and sweet and worried why she was afraid. He listened to her concerns and was trying to protect her, the mountain and the company. He was doing what he thought to be right and placing her above any other. He was trusting her with the token giving him the right to rule.

He trusted her.

And she was still going to betray him.

Her hands trembled reaching for it. The firelight made it shine silver-like. The underlying shimmering glow was intoxicating.

Fíli placed it in her hands, wrapping them securely around the stone, and then guiding it, and their hands, to her chest. It had the air of ceremony to it. Something sacred and official despite the lack of audience.

“You will keep it safe. You will keep Erebor safe.” She nodded, cursing in her head, and scrambling to decide if he was sane enough she could end this stupidity. “My uncle _betrayedhiskin_ and will be _punished_ when Dain arrives.”

She snapped her gaze from the stone to his face.

His murderously evil face.

Well.

That was that decided. Definitely not sane. Goddamn bag of cats.

To be fair, handing over the Arkenstone to a woman that shoved Bilbo off a cliff was evidence enough of that. The hatred on his face for his beloved uncle just made it official.

She hid the stone inside Fíli’s old coat, in the deepest pocket, so she could run without fear of it falling. It settled against her ribs, right above the belt. Fíli nodded at her, and the poison of the dragon was pulling him under once more. Looking at that hurt. So she flung her arms around his neck, and hid in his hair.

“I was willing to face a dragon to protect you bastards, it’d just be a waste not to do this too. But I am so sorry Fíli.” She murmured into his shoulder. That didn’t count as a confession since he didn’t understand. The joy of success was sour. Frey sneered at herself. She hadn’t seduced the stone away from him, but this didn’t feel much cleaner. He wasn’t entirely there with her. He wasn’t in his right mind, and just because it was to save his life didn’t mean that it wasn’t a deplorable move.

If the Valar had any mercy, she’d be shot by an elven guard and never have to see her choice burn everything down.  Fíli caught her chin to turn her. Inquisitive eyes hid a flash of distrust, and she froze. Fíli’s face darkened, and her mouth made a command decision to be honest while she had the chance. To take one last chance on breaking his mind free.

“I will make you safe, Fíli. I… fuck, please let this work…. amrâlimê.”

The shadow over him quivered, for a moment hope flared bright in her chest, but it wasn’t enough.

“You know that word, Frey?”

“Yes, Fíli.” She whispered. Then in english added, “And I hope you’ll forgive me one day. Dwarves are real good at grudges and this shit is probably worse than the tea thing in Laketown.”

He watched her for a moment, a faint grin of satisfaction in the corner of his mouth, but no affection. “You will make the Arkenstone safe, Seer.”

“Yes.” She agreed blindly.

He gave her a pile of armor and half-understood instructions for protecting the stone while she watched him fade deeper and deeper into madness. He murmured something about needing better braids for her hair. Then he left.

Frey followed him out a moment later, dressed in leather and mail beneath her clothes, headed for Bilbo, Thorin, and treason.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The tension and alarm of waiting in the shadow of an ancient statue kept Thorin focused on the singular intention of their plan. That was a benefit to him, since without that goal in mind, he would surely have lost himself to the possibility of how things could go wrong in the next hour. Instead, he stood in the cove behind the statue, waiting. His hobbit, hidden by that miraculous, discomforting ring, stood in the hall, awaiting the arrival of the Arkenstone and Freya. He had no expectation of needing to fight her to convince her to stay with the company. She was, after all, defined by her unwillingness to abandon them.

From the start, that had been clear.

Her arrival, announced by the clink of armor and heavy footsteps, confirmed how well she was trusted.

Beneath the coat his nephew had cast aside, she had mail and vambraces and fingerless gloves. Her legs were shrouded by studded leather panels, and her calves were wrapped in more. She would need a gorget and a helm if there were to be a battle, but Thorin knew there were items set aside already. Fíli was nothing if not thorough.

They trusted her for her prescience. They needed her, valued her safety if only for her gift, and that would protect her, no matter what they learned. Even if they were to discover her complicity in his escape, they would keep her alive for the sake of her vision.

Thorin completed his assessment of her new armor and weaponry, finally looking to her face, and froze. Bilbo was staring back at him, having seen the same tautness. She was a bare inch from tears, and clenching her jaw tight enough he expected to hear it creak.

The history between them made an offer of comfort impossible.

It was better to solve the root cause, which meant reverting to the role King and leader. They needed to apprise her of the change in the plan. Bilbo believed her intentions were good. While Thorin could not fully convince himself to see her as such, he would defer to his hobbit.  

“You will stay in Erebor. Keep my nephew from harm. Keep the others from leaving. Bilbo and I will negotiate with Thranduil and the Master and my cousin.”

“Khulu?”

Thorin frowned at the khuzdul she slipped into. Bilbo repeated it in simpler words from a few steps away. She recoiled from him, arms clasped around her stomach and face screwed up in anger as if fighting a battle in her own mind. Her first reply was in her foreign tongue, and sounded like a frustrated plea.

“ _Shutthefuckupring_ . _Nothappening_ . Thorin. _Imnotsayingyourewrong_ . _Butfuckthatnoise_ Thorin. _Fuckthat_ . _Youdontgethowmuchthissucks_ . _NotsayingIcantdoit_ . _Notsayingyourewrong_ . _Butfuckthatnoise_ . _Pleasedontmakeme_.” She edged away from Bilbo, and looked up to Thorin as she switched back to Westron. “Please no. He is not Fíli. Please.”

It was the fear of a child facing a war, no different than the times he had bolstered the spirits of troops of dwarves. Painful or not, he knew how to encourage her.

Catching her shoulders, he waited until she controlled herself enough to meet his eyes. It was possibly the first time he had touched her outside of a threat. Thorin’s disapproval of his nephew’s choice was not in consideration. He had been trained to use a kingly voice when he gave such speeches, his tone going deep and regal while exalting the honor of the task in poetic words. But Freya would not understand if he spoke of glory and nobility. She would barely understand at all. So Thorin abandoned what he had been taught, and spoke honestly.

“He needs you.”

Her eyes flickered closed, she took a deep breath, and acquiesced.

“Yes. You and Bilbo are make not battle. You are talk Dain. To Dain. You are talk to Dain. Make not fighting. Gandalf is help fourteen. _Wellactually_. Help eleven.”

She was raising her chin, visibly gathering confidence from Thorin’s presence.

Then, as things so often did in Thorin’s life, the moment of hope was broken, and everything turned to chaos and instinct.

Ori came around the corner, quieter than anyone else in the company save Bilbo, saw them, and raised the alarm. His shout still echoing through the halls, and answers coming back, the scribe charged at them.

“Run!” Frey ordered, yanking away from Thorin to intercept Ori.

Fearful for them all, Thorin obeyed, catching Bilbo’s arm as the hobbit rushed to him. They ran for the main gate, chased by the sounds of a fight. Moments later a cry of pain made him stumble, instincts screaming to go back and help, but the others were coming, and there was no time. Without the ring on, without armor on anything but his chest, Bilbo would make an easy target, so Thorin kept him closer to the wall, slightly ahead, shielded as much as possible as they sprinted up staircases and down corridors.

A crisp chill in the air reached them before Thorin knew how close they were. He half dragged Bilbo toward the barricade, skirting around the dragon’s corpse, where it was now half crushed beneath the weight of the stones.

The potential for a quiet escape had been lost when they were discovered. The chance of Frey distracting or relieving whoever sat on guard for a peaceful getaway was long gone. He would have to fight a friend to ensure their escape. There was no other way. But Mahal cursed him twice over, and Thorin saw Dwalin standing atop the wall.

Roaring in anger, his friend clambered down the rough stones, axes lit by distant torches and the faint light of the moon outside. There was no saying which of them would win in a fight one against the other, they were too evenly matched, but with the rest of the company bearing down on them, it would be fast, or it would be hopeless. Bilbo’s hand clawed at Thorin’s, trying to get away, but in the blind fear of what was to come, Thorin could not bring himself to let go. Better that Bilbo be nearby, where he could be protected than attempting to defend himself alone.

“Dwalin! Stop!”

Frey’s bellow arrested Dwalin’s charge midstep. She was sprinting, footfalls painfully loud in the cavernous hall. As Thorin and Bilbo reached the tumbled boulders on the far side of the dragon from Dwalin, she flung herself up the lowest stones to meet him. She tossed a length of rope to to Bilbo before spinning back, weapons still sheathed, and faced Dwalin.

“Whatcha doin’ Lass?”

Bilbo climbed ahead, rope over his chest, nimble, while Thorin followed after. He could only listen to the approach of the others, and the confrontation she was attempting to stall while he tried to reach safety.

His hands were sure as he climbed, as his heart thundered in his chest.

Frey was stammering answers and yelling denials behind him.

Bilbo reached the top of the wall, and started tying the rope to a brace on a column. They had to trust the length would get them to the ground on the other side. At least enough for them to survive the remaining fall.

“Go Bilbo!” He called when he saw the rope was secure. He was barely five steps away.

“The stone!” Bilbo answered, already atop the ledge ready to descend.

“Durinul damâm. Climb, Bilbo! Freya!” Thorin cursed and shouted over his shoulder as he reached the top. He was just in time to watch as she used Dwalin’s trust against him. He watched her wait until the dwarf was close, his hands outstretched in entreaty, and hit without warning. The broken nose wasn’t enough to stop Dwalin, but kicking him backwards down the small slope of rocks would slow him for a moment.

Something violent dragged through the air at that, and the Company, watching in baffled wrath from beside the dragon’s head launched forward.

She again screamed for him to run, and Thorin again obeyed, scrambling for the rope, throwing himself over the wall, and rushing to where he could hear Bilbo shouting at him.

  


* * *

 

  
“Frey!”

Frey skidded to a stop, hand just close enough to touch the rope, and incapable of going further. Stupid. Very very stupid. But she was a categorical moron, and was well aware of that. Turning toward Fíli’s voice wasn’t optional.

He’d climbed the wall faster than she thought possible.

The fur had been discarded in his chase. The crown had not.

So she had to remember it wasn’t Fíli she was talking to, but a corruption of that dwarf by the gold and Smaug’s evil. Even if he looked right. Even if he had that horrible wrinkle on his nose he got when he was worried about her. Even if his eyes had some hint of kindness. It wasn’t him. Not while he was wearing the crown.

“Why did you do it sssseeeeeerrrrrrr?”

It was nice of him to confirm things so clearly for her.

She shook her head.

“Where is it seer? Come back. Erebor is safe. You will be safe. You will be with me, and you will be safe. But you must give it back.” That simply wasn’t fair. Real Fíli used small words. Crazy Fíli didn’t bother. Crazy Fíli didn’t carefully choose words she understood. But even if the words made sense, it wasn’t him. Fíli wasn’t malignant. Fíli wouldn’t usurp his uncle. He was a cinammon roll of a dwarf. He sat up next to her when she had nightmares and chased after her when she was an idiot. He listened when she warned him, and he protected her. He didn’t call her Seer.

And she didn’t have the strength to keep facing down Crazy Fíli.

Fíli took a step toward her, and she cursed herself not acting faster when she and Bilbo and Thorin were found. If she’d handed over the stone the moment she saw Thorin, it could have gone differently. She could have pretended to chase them with the rest, not put herself in such a corner. Trapped on the damned ramparts with the king of wackadoodle was creating a bit too much a mirror to canon for her taste. If she pulled out a knife or her hammer, he’d attack and she’d lose. That was known. There was no chance she could beat him if it came to it.

She had one path at her disposal.

Her hand dipped into her coat and pulled out the Arkenstone.

Maybe the sparkly pebble really was the source of all that evil.

His eyes locked to it, and he grinned.

“Good. You know --”

She extended her arm, and held it over the edge.

His eyes flicked from it to her and back again, constantly trying to determine the greater threat and no doubt guessing if he could reach her before she let go.

“I said a long time ago that I’d shatter this dumbass thing if it would help, Fíli. I figured I’d be having this moment with Thorin. But it’s you. Because I warned about Thorin so it stopped that but this world is just a roulette wheel of misery and someone had to go down and it was you. And it’s probably because you got all up in Smaug’s face trying to find me. That’s my best guess. Thorin did that in canon. I don’t know. I’m not affected. Or maybe I am. Maybe it’s something else. But I am sorry I didn’t protect you better. I should have. It’s why I’m here.”

It wasn’t like he was listening.

She glanced to the stone, shining like rain in moonlight, then down to the ground below, quickly. Fíli took a step before she got her eyes on him again.

“Don’t.” She warned in westron.

Fíli froze, teeth bared, head weaving side to side, and a feral light in his eyes.

Frey had to stall.

Her mouth’s inability to manage eloquent words made that harder.

With a clang and a shout, the others caught them up. Nori and Bofur and Dwalin flung themselves onto the walk, half armored, with weapons drawn. There was nothing like Dwalin, no doubt irate about what she did to Ori, and furious about his broken nose to make her feel tiny and weak. She was only half sure that Ori was alright.

They saw the standoff in action, and yelled threats and pleas over each other. Fíli’s raised hand silenced them.

“Seer.”

His voice was syrupy and tender and nauseating. She fell back by a step.

“I mean it Fíli. Don’t. It’s not the plan, but I’ll shatter this fucking thing, and then you’ll probably lob me over the edge after it. And hopefully this bullshit operates on the rules I believed in when I was thirteen and reading shitty fic, and that’ll mean I’ll wake up in the real world and fuck I cannot believe I am this invested in you idiots this isn’t real and I wish I could stop caring but -- No! Fíli! Don’t.”

“Seer. You ssspoke to me. You said--” A flash of genuine pain was visible between cracks in his madness, “Did you lie to me, Seer?”

She wanted to believe him sincere for a moment.

There was only one thing he could be talking about.

She wanted to try again, try to reach him, find some phrase or action that would repel the madness and let him see clearly. Wanting wasn’t good enough, and she’d tried already. Loving him wasn’t enough. She knew he wouldn’t break free for anything less than himself, and it was delusion to think she could help.

Frey swallowed and blinked; she was supposed to be the one in control of the situation, crying wouldn’t help. Another glance confirmed her earlier check.

Fíli took another step, barely two strides away from her, “Did you lie?”

She shook her head. “No,” and her voice cracked as she admitted it. His relief transformed his face, back to kindness, back to himself.

Even so, she opened her hand, and let the Arkenstone fall.

Fíli lunged, the dwarves yelled, Frey closed her eyes, and there was no crash of destruction from below.

Thorin caught it.

Her relieved sigh turned into a gasp; her eyes flung open as hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

Maybe Thorin would catch her too when she fell.

Fíli’s eyes burning hatred at her weren’t encouraging. Nor were the bruises forming beneath his fingers. She had two knives, a hammer, armor, and plenty of motivation to stab him enough to get the hell away. If she was lucky, not that she ever was, the others would be preoccupied with saving him while she tried to slide down the rope like it was a goddamn fireman. And, while one hand found the hilt of her knife, the other fluttered over Fíli’s chest.

Because she was very very stupid.

Because she wanted him to stop this, and be as strong as Thorin was in canon without it needing a siege army on the doorstep. Without Gandalf yelling at him. Without being on the cusp of catastrophe.

Because at the end of the day, the end of the road, she still thought he could be better, and she wouldn’t stop fighting for that.

She just wasn’t enough to motivate him.

Her fingers closed on his collar, and wrenched him down to her height.

The gasped alarm from the others was the only assurance they were not moving to strike.

His hand at her hip was no assurance at all.

“You stay in Erebor, Fíli. I see that. I make you safe. Stay in Erebor.”

The pathetic, unfinished plan in her head involved hurting him to get away. Her knife. A solid knee to the balls. Headbutting him. Something.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it. Hurting Ori and Dwalin had taken all she had. Which gave him an opportunity. One of his knives was at her throat in a blink, the hand on her hip moving to cage her against the low wall before catching the hand not pinned behind her back.

It seemed apt, if, in the end, what got her killed was that she had too much of a crush on him. Crush. Right. She was back to lying to herself it seemed.  

It was a nice turnaround from the Carrock and Thorin doing the same. Family trait, she supposed, threatening to slit her throat because of valuable things thrown off ledges.

He bored holes through her with hatred and contempt, spitting out, “You are nothing to me, Seer. You lied to Ussssss. To me.”

Last time, Nori had stepped in to save her. Ten minutes ago, she stabbed Nori’s baby brother in the leg. So, despite the conflicted expression on his face, Nori would watch her die this time. Bofur was holding his mattock too eagerly. Dwalin was --

She’d lost track of Dwalin, and returned her eyes to Fíli.

If he’d taken this long to carry through, maybe she could talk her way out of it after all. “Fí, you listen. You are listen. I am see this. I am. I saw--”

“Liessss.”

His grip tightened, she tried to lean further from him, and shouts from below and beyond reached her ears.

At the same time, Dwalin reached Fíli.

It was nothing dramatic; a hand clasped over Fíli’s, forcing the knife away from her skin after an initial shallow cut. He moved the prince by the shoulder, using his bulk to block the path of any others, and his strength to stop Fíli attacking.

Frey hesitated, bewildered.

“Go, Lass.” Dwalin’s drawl didn’t disrupt his focus on his task.

She didn't need to be told twice, and was on the ground before the calm bass lecture Dwalin was giving was interrupted by Fili’s betrayed howl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles innocently* Will you believe me if I tell you _that_ was actually the kinder version of this chapter? No? ...yeah I wouldn't believe me either. Also. I quit my job, so good odds on better updates in this final rundown, which I will leave as 3 more chapters ~~plus an epilogue~~ until I am actually forced to add a fourth by virtue of something breaking 12k.  
>  Thank you to the lovely people of [Tumblr](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/) who are so ridiculously nice, and to [Mephestopheles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles) who is, as always responsible for my sanity as an author and is usually the only reason I ever actually post anything. <3  
> Let me know if you see glaring errors, I need to post this before I keep fussing at it!  
>  
> 
> **Khuzdul**  
>  Khulu? : What?  
> Amrâlimê : My love  
> Durinul damâm : Durin’s Blood


	31. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they deserve a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not dead! Have a chapter!
> 
> Update: 12/2017: I swear I’m not dead and this isn’t abandoned. I have two thirds of the remainder written and I appreciate all of you who are still waiting for this. Think productive thoughts at me over the holidays please and i’ll Do what I can to put the rest together for a holiday gift to you all.

* * *

 

 

“Are you willing to concede to my superior skill yet, dwarf?”

Kíli snorted, nocked another arrow, and gave a half bow to Legolas. Tauriel did not need to know what the pair of them did when she left them unguarded. In fact, it was important she not know. Harmless as it was, she wouldn’t approve of their shooting contests. She would frown, and that look always gave Kíli a stomachache. So it was important she not find out, which meant he had to win, and quickly.

He straightened, sighting the target, and turned to stare at Legolas. He waited until the princeling made eye contact, then drew and fired, without looking away. Muscle memory sank the arrow exactly where he wanted it to go.

Both he and Legolas turned, saw it stuck directly against the elvish arrow in the trunk of a tree nearly a hundred steps away, and started to laugh.

“You could not know you would make that shot.”

“Of course I could. Why, would you have thought it too hard, elf?”

“That shot is nothing for my kin, dwarf.”

“Oh is it?”

“It is.”

“Prove it then.”

They were turned to face off, perpendicular to the target. Legolas drew across his body, off angle and confident. Kíli smiled in a way that usually made Fíli smack him. The arrow flew, and both maintained their challenge, refusing to be the first to turn.

“What are you doing?” Tauriel’s shout spun them both, showing her marching from the treeline, luckily out of the line of their target.

Sheepish as they waited for her to come closer, Legolas still whispered, “You were saying?”

Kíli cackled, knowing, even with it now blocked by Tauriel’s approach, that Legolas had managed the shot. There was no maliciousness in their contest, only the camaraderie of two talented archers. Tauriel found it less amusing than the pair of them did.

“You were meant to find dinner while I investigated the edge of the forest.”

“We did, already cooking.” Kíli gestured behind him.

“The Captain of the King’s guard knows the value of practice, does she not?” Legolas added. Tauriel’s flat impatience set him laughing again, “Very well, mellon nin, I’ll fetch back the bolts, and we will allow our skills to wither in the future.” He gave her an exaggerated bow before sauntering away, noticeably slower than he often moved, giving Kíli an opportunity to speak with her.

“Tauriel, there is no harm meant in it.”

“We have not found the orcs we are pursuing, and once again have lost their trail.”

“Then there can’t be too much to worry about. We’d have found them otherwise, and would be riding back as fast as the horses could go.”

She nodded, “I am uneasy with it. Without a certain answer, there are too many possibilities we would not favor.”

“Tauriel…”

“Legolas has seemed calmer since leaving the Greenwood, has he not? Just as you have seemed more yourself since leaving Erebor?”

He started, glancing at Legolas where he was rocking arrows gently from the tree trunk they’d chosen as a target. Kíli knew that he had behaved strangely while in the mountain. All of the Company had. He knew he had felt a great weight lift from his shoulders as he rode further north. He knew that there was something unusual in the air of the mountain, just as the air of Mirkwood had been putrid. Not once had he thought to compare the two.

Legolas’ shift from standoffish and unpleasant to welcoming and jocular was the goal, so Kíli didn’t consider any reason for it beyond his own good behavior and personal charms. He was, after all, an exceedingly endearing dwarf, as proven by two elves, a hobbit, and a whatever Freya was, all of whom he had now befriended.

“He feels younger today than he did a hundred years ago. Kíli, he looks younger.”

“What does that mean?”

“His face has grown less--”

“No, I understood that part, and I agree, but I thought it was an elf-thing. What are you implying?”

“I do not know.”

Kíli caught her hands where they rested on the pommels of her blades, and gently squeezed.

“We have troubles enough Tauriel, do we need to borrow more? We can’t simply enjoy that your brother is finally--”

“He is not my brother.”

“He may as well be, Tauriel. He’s threatened me no less than a dozen times if I ever cause you the smallest harm. Your brother has finally stopped repeating those threats each time you are out of earshot. Thatrukhulde, you told me that we needed him on our side if this is to succeed. We’ll need Fíli as well. He’ll talk around amad and the council when they have a fit over this. We need Legolas too, I don’t think that Fíli yelling would do much to persuade King Thranduil.” Her soft smile held a trace of indulgence, but she did not interrupt.

“Tauriel, I see what you speak of, I do not understand, but I see it. Is there any harm coming from it? Is it a problem that he’s happier and nicer, and acts less like he has a stick the size of a war hammer rammed up his--”

“Kíli!” She shouted with a laugh. It transformed her face, and Kíli marked it down as a job well done. The light in her eyes was exquisite, and Kíli tightened his hands. There were no fences to be had, and she’d stop looking so glorious if he pulled her down to his height, so he beamed, and waited for her mirth to settle into something calmer, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“You can be as bad as my Uncle, did you know that, Tauriel? He’s always looking for problems that don’t exist, so he can be the first to face off against them. Not everything is a problem. Some things are events, nothing more.”

The moment stretched, sweet and mild, as the chilly air of the northern plains turned to a breeze. Neither moved, simply stared, and enjoyed each other. He improved her mood; that was a great achievement, and he added it to the totals in his mind.  

But the pleasantness did not last.

They heard the twang of a bowstring, and tensed.

One of Legolas’s bolts stuck in the ground at their feet a second later.

The flash of outrage for an elf he thought was a friend dissipated when they saw him in the woods. He was ducked to hide behind a tree, and once he had their attention, gestured sharply. Kíli understood two of the three motions, and trusted in Tauriel for the last. As instructed, he kicked dirt across the small fire pit, ignoring the half cooked pheasant, and followed her across the plain.

She whispered an answer to him as they moved, and Kíli’s grin turned savage: Legolas had found their quarry.

Yet another advantageous result of he and Tauriel’s relationship. There would be epic songs written about their contribution to the reclamation of Erebor. There would be tapestries. Statues. It would be excellent, and Kíli would never for an instant stop teasing Fíli about it.

They crept through the trees, all three holding nocked arrows, and Kíli emulated their silent footfalls to tolerable success. His hearing was nowhere near as good as his companions, and it was several minutes terse searching before he heard the huff and grunt of an orc. Whether it was scout or guard did not matter, killing it would raise an alarm. They were better served by learning more.

The three stalked after it when it ambled away.

With a glance, Tauriel ordered them to follow behind her as she swung into a tree. Elevated, they travelled slower, but safer. It twisted at memory, and made his gut turn over, but Kíli shoved aside the recollection. There was no cliff, and Freya killed Azog in Mirkwood. It would go better this time.

Tauriel insisted they stay a few trees away, able to take a shot if needed, but not so close to be instantly caught in the same net.

It ate at him as they followed the sounds of a camp, keeping him tense while he leapt from branches and strived for silent landings. She was correct, and they all knew it. She was faster, more stealthy, and more accustomed to these combat situations. It bothered Kíli in spite of that. He wanted to be beside her. He wanted to guard her back. By the wrinkle in Legolas’ normally smooth face, the sentiment was shared.

She froze when she entered a thick pine tree on the edge of a clearing, directing them to another.

All the air fell out of his lungs when Kíli saw what she did.

The field held an army, camped beside deep caves vanishing into the earth. It outnumbered every soldier and inhabitant in Ered Luin, twice over. He calculated their strength as he gaped, and found it surpassed the capacity of the elves and men combined. There were trolls and lumbering beasts corralled between lines of orc troops, travelling safe in the day thanks to the season’s eternally grey skies. There were wargs snarling and snapping in their pens. There were fell machines waiting to advance.

It was an army beyond any he had seen.

The dwarves of the Iron Hills were too far to call for aid; by the time he and the others had returned with a warning, there would be no hope. Legolas caught Kíli’s arm, nodding toward the caves with a question in his eyes.

It wasn’t the time to be insulted. He looked again at the strange round holes, and recoiled. He should have noticed sooner. Stone and earth did not form like that. They were being made, being dug, to advance the army unseen. A shudder rocked him, seeing the threat increase.

He needed to warn Thorin. They needed to warn the Men and the Elves, and call for aid from all quarters. If this army took the mountain, it would be a blow to the free people of the North. Gandalf spoke of something similar early in the quest, always too quietly for Kíli to really listen, but remaining a presence in his mind. It was spoken of less after Freya arrived and foretold their success against the dragon. If they could slay a dragon, surely they were unstoppable.

Erebor occupied by Smaug was a horror, but a quiet one. The Worm slept for much of the last centuries, content with the horde he captured. Erebor occupied by orcs would be a spawning nest that spilled armies across the region and served the will of their Dark masters.

This army was the start of a path to a desolate future to sent a shudder down his spine.

Kíli’s hand shot sideways, catching Legolas’ arm.

This was the army Freya had feared. This was the army that kept her awake at night and fearful of her Sight.

It made more sense than the small contingent that pursued them through the quest. He needed to get to his brother. Freya would know how they planned to attack. She would know, and Thorin would counter it. They could retreat into the mountain, inviting along Thranduil and Bard and the Master’s peoples. They could hide, and wait for aid.

If they did not bring warning back, there was no path but ruination.

Some small, distant voice in his head applauded his maturity and resolve in the face of calamity, but without Fíli there to grin at, it rang hollow. This was his responsibility to his people. He was a prince of Durin’s line, and would do all he could. Fear had no place in his mind. Doubt could not stop him. He and Fíli had trained for such moments all their lives, and no matter how he flashed to thoughts of death, he knew his actions would determine the course of his people. He could not let them down. He was a prince of--

The sharp twang of a bow cut off his thoughts, and Tauriel’s scream turned his mind to stuttering chaos.

She tumbled from the tree, surrounded by orcs the moment she hit the ground.

They hissed, and Kíli caught the few discernable words, ever grateful for his education. They spoke of Angmar, and where to take their prize.

Tauriel knocked back the first to touch her, blades drawn and sweeping to open a space around her. The arrow in her side was not fatal, and she ignored it, spinning to maintain the momentary protection.  

Something monumental shifted between Kíli and Legolas. It was an unspoken conversation that could have filled tomes, but passed in a single glance. They made their choice.

While the orc camp roared and mobilized, two princes leapt from their tree, firing as they fell, and charged. There would be no escape for the three of them together. But the message had to be carried to Erebor, and, even injured, Tauriel was the fastest rider.

 

* * *

 

They were on the edge of Dale, looking back across the plain to the gates of Erebor, and waiting for the messenger to return from their task. The reaction to the King of Erebor arriving in the middle of the night had been amusing. Even with the current circumstances, the sight of a guardsman flinging to consciousness, and stammering out a baffled question made Thorin lighter.

If they’d found Dale well fortified and guarded, it would be a sign of danger. Incompetent guards meant that the Master and the Elven King were lackadaisical. The dwarves were not considered a threat, which was insulting, but would serve Thorin well in his efforts.

There was a great deal of stuttering as the guard decided it was best for him to go to his superior and locate a larger escort. Which was precisely what Thorin lead him to decide. Once the man took off running, leaving them behind to wait, Thorin and his companions stepped away from the city’s entry, and resumed their vigil over Erebor. Lights moved on the parapet, glowing in the dark, illuminating the roughshod construction of the barricade.

The minds of all three were no doubt wandering dark paths. Anything else was impossible.

There would be time for Thorin to berate himself after a treaty was negotiated. If he was particularly busy in the coming months, and had no opportunity, it would be Dis’ right to lecture him for a full two days on his inadequacy as a King and as an Uncle. Dain would help. Gandalf as well. They could shout at him in turns, and he would deserve every word of it. There was no denying that his actions in the mountain had done little good. He had done outright harm. After the death of the Dragon, nothing had gone as he expected, and new calamities bloomed without his notice. So preoccupied with his own phobias and need to protect Bilbo, he missed the malady claiming his companions, and perverting his nephew’s noble spirit.

Thorin thought the fleck of a shape on the distant walkway was Fíli, and sighed.

“That went poorly,” he announced, summarizing their view, the last days, and their escape.

Frey huffed, and Bilbo echoed it from his other side.

“We aren’t dead yet, Thorin. And they’re all safe inside the mountain. Have faith.” Bilbo nudged his arm, smiling wryly. The optimism was endearing, if deceptive. There was little cause for him to believe all would be well. One nephew was lost in madness, the other vanished into the horizon accompanied by elves. The Company’s surety against the future had failed to see the most obvious of corruptions, yet she insisted there was a war over the next hill.

He carried the arkenstone once more, and that would be a boon, but it was no certainty. Without his advisors, without his companions and friends, without his kin, he had to negotiate a treaty with the Elven King, and a man so repulsive Thorin had never bothered to learn his name.

The situation was grim.

If Freya was correct, and she often was, they could perhaps insist that negotiations be held between Bard, Thranduil, and himself. As the rightful King of Dale, it was a reasonable request, but the Master was an obsequious and altogether disgusting man, clinging to power by whatever means necessary. A vow to repay him for the hospitality of Laketown would not be enough to slake his greed. Nor would a trading deal. No, the man would need to be bought. Traditionally, when faced with a similar situation, Thorin would have attempted to persuade the other parties to his side. With Thranduil joining them at the table, that tactic was unlikely to succeed.

“We will be fine, stop grumping about over there.” Bilbo slipped his hand into Thorin’s, holding tight for a moment, “This isn’t ideal, but what of this quest has been?”

Despite the pallor in the air, he allowed himself a moment to tease his hobbit.

“I believe we can agree that the first night was an inarguable success.”

“The -- oh don’t you dare say that Thorin -- The first night? Do you mean when you got lost? Or perhaps when your Company threw my finest pottery about over my head? After eating every speck of food in my larder? When Freya tried to stab you all and Dwalin nearly threw my second favorite side table across the room?”

“It was an excellent evening.”

“How can you say that? My tomatoes? And then Bofur -- and that contract? Really, Thorin, that contract is simply indefensible, I haven’t the faintest idea why I signed it. Nor can I fathom what you were thinking when you had it drafted.”

There was very nearly a wave of heat coming off Bilbo as he worked himself into a fit. It was entirely charming. The proof that Bilbo could remain so invested in the sanctity of his dishes and produce after all that he had seen was a marvel. It was a testament to the strength of his Consort, and to his ability to recover. Any single week of the quest went beyond what had been asked of Bilbo in his life before, and he faced it all. He whined, often, but he persevered. After watching so many of Erebor’s dwarves wither and fade in the years after Smaug, resilience was a wonder.

His Consort was a wonder, even as he lectured.

There would be a fuss when it was announced, but that was unavoidable. If dwarves weren’t making a fuss over Bilbo’s ascension to a Consort’s crown, they would find another target. Kíli’s poor choices. Nori’s reputation. They would find something. It was a comforting thought, in its way: some things would not change, some things would survive their darkest hours and emerge like fresh growth in the spring.

“-- and truly Thorin, I think I can safely say that the night you all blundered into my life was the worst of my entire life, and that includes the time just before the Harvest Festival when I was a tween and took refuge for half a day without my trousers in a bramble patch to avoid Farmer Maggot. Never mind where my trousers had gone, I’m not telling you, it was simply terrible, but that first night of this quest was worse. The worst of my life.”

“It was one of the best of mine.”

Bilbo stammered to a stop with an inquisitive noise.

“A Company of friends and kin I trusted stood at my side when no others would. We began a quest that has been the culmination of my life. I finally took action to restore to my people what was stolen from us. I was in a peaceful and welcoming land. And, I found you.” Thorin answered softly.

“You didn’t even like me, Thorin, don’t be absurd.”

Pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead, he corrected him, “If I had not liked you, no wizard could have persuaded me to let you join us. You are an infuriating and bothersome creature, Bilbo, and I cannot conceive of how we would have come so far without you.” The bald honestly had the desired effect.

Bilbo wrapped his arms behind Thorin’s neck, buried his face in the furs at Thorin’s collar, and clung.

“All will be well.” Bilbo mumbled, not confident enough to make it a statement rather than a question.

“Yes, and we shall endure the time until that is so.” Thorin bullied his fears into submission, promising himself that the Company was safe, and refocusing on the immediate challenges.

Freya took a few steps closer to the edge of the rise, closer to the mountain, as if proximity could assuage her concerns. Waifish for a dwarf, she proved herself hardy, many times over. Thorin overheard much of her argument with Fíli. Not all of it made sense without the context of seeing them, but he knew his nephew well enough to guess what had been the most offensive crime. She had not crumbled.

Had the situation gone as Freya first warned, it would have been himself and Bilbo. Thorin liked to think he would not not have been so cruel, but could not believe that with an honest heart. She earned a measure of respect from him for keeping to the truth when Fíli pressed her. Thorin had been at the base of the wall, staring up at the gleam of starlight on the Arkenstone, when he heard that flare of vulnerability in Fíli’s voice.

Freya did not lie to him. She betrayed him instead.

Watching her over top of Bilbo’s head, Thorin saw her push away sentiment. She had climbed down the rope, too energized by fear to think. That tension leached away, becoming fear as they walked. Scarcely more than an hour later, she found a way to lift her chin.  

Good.

They would need her at her clearest and most rational in the coming days if they were to prevail.

She glowered at the mountain like it had personally wronged her, which, he had to admit, it had in many ways, and Thorin continued to hold his consort. Bilbo was hardy as well. They would prevail, he would allow nothing less.

“Your Highness, so good of you to come visiting unexpected!”

Thorin groaned, released Bilbo, and turned to face the ferret-faced man that served the Master of the Lake.

“Many thanks to you for the welcome.” Thorin’s answer was crisp.

“It’s quite kind of you to come yourself, Mister Alfrid--” Bilbo began, sounding eternally polite.

“But what are you doing here alone? In the middle of the night? What made the guard come to wake me and drag me down to see you here?”

There were half a dozen guardsmen in various states of bewildered drowsiness behind Alfrid. Not a one had their hand on a weapon. So the situation remained insulting, but manageable. He had met with less pleasant welcoming parties and maintained the facade of a King. Once more would be no bother. Particularly since Bilbo had recollected the Man’s name.

Freya, mercifully, was silent.

“News of great importance, I should say, seeing as the King himself has come to treat with your Master, and King Thranduil.”

“Come to talk about reparations and trade in the dark of night?”

Bilbo’s smile looked polite in the torchlight, but it held a note of violence. “And more besides. We must speak with them immediately.”

“The Master, unlike we poor folk, is asleep this evening.”

“It will be in his best interest to sacrifice his rest for this conversation.” Thorin rumbled.

“If it’s naught more than talk of trade, it can wait until the morning.”

“If it was nothing but trade we would have requested a meeting with Bard. He has been most helpful, and Erebor will be happy to restrict our trade exclusively to his trusted care.” Bilbo made the gentle words a threat. It had been explained, time and again, that Hobbits kept a more complex set of manners and conversation than Dwarves understood, but seeing it in action kept making Thorin’s lips twitch. Bilbo would be an exceptional Consort.

Which was all the better since Thorin’s temper with the man’s veiled insults was running low.

“I’m sure the Master would be happy to arrange something.”

“And Bard will be included in that conversation, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Alfrid sneered. One of the guards snickered. “But trade’s not enough to wake up the Master. The Elves don’t seem to ever sleep, but we proper folk put a value on it.”

“Your Majesty?” Bilbo cued formally.

“It is a conversation that can be held _only_ amongst the leaders of this region,” he used his most formal and inarguable voice, “myself, King Thranduil, the Master of the Lake, and the Heir to throne of Dale.”

“There is no Heir to Dale. Girion’s line has laid in the mud since he failed with that bow of his. Never rose back. There’s no one left of Girion’s line worth even the mud on the banks of the Lake.”

“We have heard otherwise, Mister Alfrid.” Bilbo cut in, “I am only too happy to visit the man in question and offer an invitation personally, if you are not willing.”

The sneer slipped. Alfrid bowed with an unctuous grin, and two of the guards were sent jogging. Alfrid waited, then attempted to pry information from them.  “If you don’t mind the question, what brings you here yourself instead of sending one of your dwarves? We hear such strange things about the old ruins. Rumors. Stories. Nightmares.”

Thorin gave him no response.

“There’s not something wrong up there? The dragon spent so long, there’s no saying what trouble it could cause.” The pointed silence from Thorin and Bilbo served. Alfrid abandoned the effort, and he gestured toward the city. “The guards’ll find the Master and the King. We’ll see about finding your archer on the way.”

It was unspeakably rude. The tone and the words and the implication. With Erebor restored, Thorin would have walked from the negotiations. He would have stood on principle until he received an apology and the man was removed from any position of prominence. That had to be a daydream for another time. They were not secure enough to push back against foul manners. It would be challenge enough to persuade Thranduil to their cause.

Thorin’s actions in Eryn Galen had done nothing to endear him to the Elf.

He let the insult go, and nodded acquiescence to Alfrid’s gesture.

“Do you intend to apologize to Thranduil?” Bilbo whispered.

“No. You will have to be charming, kurdue.”

“Can’t we send Freya instead?” The joke was weak, and both knew it. Freya harangued her way into the Company, glared until the elves of Rivendell befriended her, and threatened to die in the wilderness to coerce Beorn into taking care of them all.

It was a terrible idea.

“And just where do you think you’re sneaking off to?” Thorin turned at the man’s odious statement, finding Alfrid beside Freya. He had his hands on her shoulders, standing at her back. She had moved closer to the mountain when the rest began to enter the city; no doubt it was instinct after her months-long mantra. Worse, her hands had shifted closer to the handles of her weapons. Thorin could just see her face. She bit her cheek, and Thorin waited. “You’re not staying with the dwarves any more, missy. Among menfolk you’re expected to show some manners.”

It was unlikely that Freya understood what was being said. That was for the best. There would be less bloodshed.

She turned to Thorin, and gave him a look that could be called nothing but a request for permission to commit an act of violence. He was wrong. She understood Alfrid enough.

He shook his head gently.

It was tempting to let her loose her anger on the man. As Alfrid rambled on about the proper behavior she was expected to show, contrasting it with dwarven conduct, that temptation grew. Thorin restrained himself; they had to remain focused on their primary task. When Thorin gave her a more forceful look, Freya rolled her shoulders, took a step sideways, and spoke falteringly.

“I not am -- not make words for Westron.” Her Westron was better than that. Much better. Thorin knew it was. She was too flustered or angry to speak clearly.

But Thorin saw a possibility, and found the same idea echoed in Bilbo’s eyes.

With little else to recommend her, being underestimated by the Men and Elves would serve her well. Between the armor and the feigned ignorance, they would assume she was an innocent, naive, and valued.

They wouldn’t harm her, but they might listen to her. Thranduil might listen to her.

“My apologies for her.” Thorin began, overly solemn, “She has travelled with us for some time, but speaks a tongue we do not know. Despite our best efforts, she has learned hardly any Westron. Please, direct your queries to myself or Master Baggins, she is more accustomed to our manner of speaking. It is less bothersome to her simplicity.” Thorin gave the man a slight nod, bemoaning the mercy they had to extend to a simple creature. It served. Alfrid simpered, nodding along as if it was clear to him.

“Oh yes. It’s such a bother to have to constantly allow for the needs of those that aren’t quite at the level of the better classes. You must be exhausted of it. We didn’t see much of her when you were travelling through before. Of course the Master of the Lake would be only too happy to show you the courtesy of keeping an eye on her.”

Freya spun slowly, and silently widened her eyes in a frustrated threat.

Thorin ignored her.

“How generous, Mister Alfrid. You need not worry that she will understand you, but we have spent so long travelling with her, it would be a relief to take your offer.” Bilbo added.

Thorin closed the distance, squeezing her wrist to make his point, and simplified his words, “Perhaps, with the introduction of yourself and the Master, Freya can meet with the Elven King.”

Somehow, she looked more disgusted at the prospect than Thorin felt. All the same, she bobbed her head, and put on a mask of stupidity.

“Elves?” She asked brightly, extending her hand to Alfrid, as if meeting an elf was the grandest idea she’d ever heard. She pitched her voice higher, and kept her eyes wide and vapid.

The man was easy to manipulate, and fell for their fragile deceit.

“Of course, your highness, they say the Elves like to see all the peculiarities of the world since they’ve been around so long. I’ll see if they’ll take her off our hands while you’re meeting with the Master.”

“After we find Girion’s heir, of course.” Bilbo reiterated.

Face falling, the lackey agreed, directing the guards to escort Thorin and Bilbo where they needed to go.

Alfrid half dragged her through the streets of Dale, with Bilbo and Thorin following behind. When the man moved his hand to the back of her head, Freya moved hers to the small of her back, and went through what was possibly every bit of vulgar iglishmek the Company had ever shown her.

Thorin didn’t blame her.

 

* * *

 

The dwarf-king was going right the fuck back on the list of people she wanted to kick in the crotch. Not the top of it because that space was held by Alfrid, disgusting lump of fish-rotting-garbage and worst toady in Arda, but Thorin was high up there.

Number Three.

It went Alfrid. Gandalf. Thorin. Bolg.

Right. Yes. Her old friend Anger had set up shop at the forefront of her mind. It had been too long since she’d reached that level of pure fury that burned away fear and loss. It served her well in Eriador when her initial stupidity was causing her trouble and she followed the bastards around like a chatty duckling. She was too angry to think about anything but catching them. By the time she got to Erebor she’d been sidetracked by sentiment and squishy feelings like affection and guilt.

That was no longer the case.She was definitely still guilty, and the affection hadn’t gone away, but it was like trying to notice a papercut after a car crash.

It was nice to have raw, tenacious anger to keep her focused.

So she embraced it.

The city was too dark. Her back was bruised. Alfrid was touching her hair. She wanted a giant bowl of curry. Her dwarves had the moral temerity of pond-sludge. And Elves were too tall.

Frey didn’t like it. She could duck between their legs, which sounded funny, but it was hard to tell who was wearing a dress and who was wearing a long coat. She didn’t know why they were wearing swoopy things to a battlefield, but no one was more dramatic than elves, so there was no way to talk them out of it. But it meant she couldn’t duck beneath them and run away. She’d get caught in flowy fabric. They’d be insulted by her lack of flowery soap and clean clothes.

Damned mibilkhagas.

Frey froze. She spent too much time with the dwarves.

Alfrid took offense to her pause and shoved, still using the back of her head as a handle. He couldn’t see her face, so she didn’t pretend to be happy about it.

Definitely wanted to kick him in the balls. Punch. Punching was a more reasonable expectation in deference to the height difference. If he pulled a tenth of what he did in the movie, if he started on that path -- if he talked too much in her _presence_ \-- she was going to take one for the team and do it. Make the fandom proud. Prevent him from breeding. Then feed him to a warg.

If nothing else went right in the coming days and weeks, she was going to inflict some pain on Alfrid whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was. She couldn’t remember. She knew it was stupid. Closest thing in her head to a name was a crack fic that shipped him with a fish. Since portmanteaus didn’t cross the English/Westron barrier, she couldn’t use it to insult him. So physical violence it was.

She didn’t blame Thorin for the choice. She knew what he wanted her to do. It wasn’t likely to work, but she would try if she got the chance. And really, there was no way Thranduil and Thorin were going to speak amicably to each other unless there were extenuating circumstances. Frey could be that circumstance. She talked Beorn around. She could do this. Besides. It would make a great story to tell Galadriel later.

If they all survived.

Alfrid shoved to keep her moving and Frey glued a rusty customer service smile onto her face when he looked. Bilbo’s hermitdom and Thorin’s snarly brooding made more sense if this was how Big People were all the time. Then again. It was Alfrid, he was a twatgoblin, and probably shouldn’t be the basis of the How Bad do Tall People Suck scale.

When he found a group of elves he clearly deemed low level, Alfrid got their attention and announced, “This here is _somethingunusual_ . Doesn’t _speak_ Westron. My Master thought you _mightfind_ her _interesting._ Keep an _eyeon_ her.”

Then he left.

Which put Frey alone at the center of a circle of elvish soldiers.  

One of them, who she was immediately convinced would die in the battle thanks to his generic features, knelt down and introduced himself. Too tall, but always polite, that was how elves worked, with a few notable exceptions. Despite the armor and the weapons, they didn’t see her as a threat. Because she was tiny to them.

“I am Faldel little one. How are you named ?” He spoke slowly and clearly, like she would understand a foreign language better at a snail’s pace.

“I am Freya.”

The elf’s eyes lit up, cheerful and encouraging. “You do know some Westron, then?”

It reminded her of Glory.

No. She had a task. She should stay focused on her task. It was legitimately life and death.

Frey glanced around the circle of soldiers, as close to hardscrabble as elves could be, and pondered the upcoming battle. Ravenhill wouldn’t be an issue, it no longer existed. Thorin was a king. He could handle negotiations. Or Bilbo could. Certainly as a pair it would be just dandy. They could handle it fine. Generally things went better when she wasn’t involved. She didn’t really even speak the language.

Maybe her anger was less of a shield than she thought.

Or maybe it was just something about elves that made her want to throw in the towel and hide for a while.

“Do you have wine?” she asked in her best accent with an innocent grin.

Three of the elves laughed, and reached for bottles and flagons. When they gestured with them to a seat in their grouping, she continued, “I talk Westron.”

The next hour vanished into alcohol. Well deserved, much needed, alcohol. The elves took endless delight in her faltering tirades about simple things, and took her arrival in stride, clearly bored out of their minds with the trip from the forest.

It was only an hour of enthusiastic drinking.

They weren’t drunk.

They also weren’t sober.

It wasn’t just a Glorfindel thing, intoxicated elves thought she was awesome. To be fair, while drunk, Frey thought she was pretty awesome too. She’d been fantastic from the start, and it took the dwarves ages to notice it. Elves caught onto those things faster. They were the best.

Maybe she’d get to run away and live with them after the Army of Unknown Leadership rolled up to try and smoosh her dwarves. She wasn’t going to bail on that, but in the aftermath she was going to need a new place to crash.

Dwarves never forgave.

And they never forgot.

And she stabbed Ori, then stole the Arkenstone, so it’d be a good call on their part.

So the choices were Glorfindel, Galadriel, or the troop of soldiers whose name she hadn’t really understood and then forgot entirely.

Frey laughed along with the elves as Findel lost the game they were playing. The bottle on his head fell, and Sarawas caught it with a flourish. It was something to do with throwing things at each other while maintaining balance. She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t playing. Not that it mattered.

Elves were the best.

She was going to tell Fíli that next time she saw him.

The jerk.

Orindel caught her when she tripped in her efforts to go back to her seat. “You are well, little one?”

Frey nodded.

“Why did the _servant_ leave you with us? And why did he _falselyclaim_ you do not know Westron?”

“Alfrid is a faslak. And a idiot. I am come with dwarfs. Dwarves.”

“From Erebor?” The other elves quieted, listening surreptitiously to their conversation. Frey nodded, and Orindel continued, “With the dwarves _whomour_ King _imprisoned_?”

“What? I am follow with fourteen. Is that what you’re talking about? Crap. Westron. Uh. That is the thing you…. Uh… ask?”

“Ah, Little one, you _ought_ to have said so _sooner_. Come!”

He seemed something close to apologetic as he got her to her feet, and two of the soldiers stepped into place behind them.

She grumbled.

It wasn’t hard to guess what was happening.

Frey scowled at Thranduil’s tent anyway. There should have been a -- no doubt angry and insulting -- negotiation occurring inside. Thorin and Thranduil should have been yelling about Lasgalen gems and ancient honor and being consummate ninny-hammers like they usually were. It was silent. “If Thrandy already threw those morons in a cell, I’m gonna spit in his wine. And steal his moose. Elk. Elk, yes. It was a horse named Moose playing an Elk. Good job special features. I don’t know what the hell the battle is gonna look like, but I know the name of the goddamn Horse. Fuck you, Peter Jackson, I’m gonna spit in your tea. Bop me out of here Mahal, I’ll do it right now.”

The elves took her mumbling in a foreign language better than the Company did, and ignored it. They also had that vague thread of sympathy in them. Thranduil wasn’t wholly bad. He was a lazy sot, and draped over things like an overgrown cat, and he was going to be way too tall, but he was also a war veteran and cared about his people.

Probability of getting stabbed by him was very low.

Or Freya had passed the singularity and entered into a plane of stress so severe she could no longer feel it.

Either was a possibility.

Tent flaps opened, Orindel gestured, and Frey, still armed and armored, walked inside.

 

* * *

 

It would be a blatant lie to say that the inhabitants of the chamber were merely uncomfortable. Thorin was stiff backed in his seat. Bard seemed ready to sprint from the room at a moment’s notice. The Master despised the inclusion of Bard. The two guards that escorted them were trying to vanish from existence.

Bilbo could have screamed at the lot of them. It had been more than an hour already.

Though. Thorin could have opened the conversation with something more delicate than a pronouncement of an approaching war and a declaration that Bard was to be crowned King of Dale. Loving the fool didn’t blind Bilbo to Thorin’s lack of subtlety.

Then there were a great number of perfectly cordial-toned barbs flung at each other with courtier’s smiles. Bilbo said not a word, filling a goblet and taking a seat against the wall. It was the same trick he used when he visited his younger Took cousins. They would nip and bicker and argue until they ran out of prewritten insults, and then whatever business he needed to accomplish could actually occur. Never before. It was something about reasserting dominance. From hobbits, it was primarily about gardens, greenery and who grew the superior cabbage. From the trio before him, it was ego and wealth and a brief diversion into whether the Master had any measurable skills on a battlefield.

Bilbo was content to wait for them to wear themselves out and behave like adults. The room was quite nice for an abandoned building, even if the chairs were too tall. He was warm despite the chill in the air. Thorin was well. The Company was as well as could be expected. Outside of the Mountain, he felt less like an intruder in something sacred and dwarven.

Though, he had to remind himself of Thorin’s promises, and the beads in his hair.

He was the Consort.

Not that it was official until there were ceremonies and crowns and festivities. And a proper feast. He planned to insist on that. He would stay and he would help in whatever way Erebor needed after this last prophesied threat was dispelled, but then he was going to dig his furry feet into the earth and inform Thorin that he was owed a feast. Several, by Bilbo’s count, but he would start with the one.

“We must find a way to come to amicable terms.” Thorin shouted, interrupting Bilbo’s mental wanderings, “The rising threats are too dangerous for any one of our peoples to face alone. We must join together with the Elves.”

“Your people? There’s hardly a dozen of you! Why should we not oust you from your cave and use it to shelter ourselves if what you say is true?” The Master squawked, “It would be hardly a trouble to do so with the Elf King’s assistance. And you dwarves haven’t yet repaid your debt to us, have you?”

Bard scowled as Alfrid joined them. Frey was nowhere to be seen. With luck, she was off bothering Thranduil into concordance with their plan. She talked around the elves of Rivendell, and they were a far more stately and revered group than those in Mirkwood. And neither Bilbo nor Thorin would be able to make their way through an entire conversation with Thranduil without dropping a few insults in for flavor. Imprisonment was hard to overlook.

The ferret of a man that served the Master immediately began to pander, “Nor have they offered you the apology you deserve for leading orcs into your lands, my lord.”

“Had the guards not been too wine-besotted and lazy the orcs would never have reached the town!” Bard yelled, “Without the help of the dwarves the orc attack would have been ruinous!”

“Erebor will be happy to pay our friends and allies in Laketown for the aid they rendered to us, I promise you.”

“And what good is your word Master Dwarf? You have been back in your Mountain for weeks and have not yet offered payment!”

“Dear mercy, have you no reason or compassion?” Bard snapped in reply.

Bilbo stopped listening as they escalated.

Big folk -- and yes, Thorin counted as a Big Folk, he was a head taller than Bilbo -- were too shouty for his tastes. He’d insist on a change in manners once things were settled.

It was odd, he had to admit to that. It was odd how confident he felt having left the mountain. Freya knew of the battle to come and was more than dedicated to the survival of the Company. Once Thorin and Bard cowed the Master they would come to an arrangement. Azog was dead or dying out there in the world, and common orcs were no challenge for his dwarves. More than that, he still had his ring. He rubbed his thumb over it in his pocket, thanking it for all the help it had given him. He certainly wouldn’t be handing it off to any of the others. He’d given it to Kíli out of desperation in the wine cellar; the present was not so dire, and the dwarves would be better served if he kept it himself. His was the better hand to wield it. If it seemed that the battle was more dangerous than expected, he would slip it on, draw Sting, and ensure the future turned out the way he wanted. No matter what, he would guard Thorin and the boys.

Well. Guard Fíli.

Even with all this bluster and nonsense, he wasn’t about to let the lad come to harm. Nor would Thorin. Kíli was well and safe off with a pair of elves. Fíli was more trouble.

So that was that settled.

One way or another, by the hand of the Valar, or by his own, Freya’s most dire prediction wouldn’t come to pass. Dain was likely a fine fellow, but Bilbo was going to keep the dwarves he started with, thank you very much.

Simpler that way.

He looked up from his empty goblet to see Alfrid Lickspittle, and Bilbo intended to ask if that was a patronymic or nominative because surely no one would take as their husband a man named Lickspittle, attempting to intimidate Bard. The Bowman, having faced down orcs, dwarves, men, and a dragon in the past weeks, was immovable. The usual irritated disregard for the world had a bit more outrage than Bilbo saw previously. Bard was digging in his own heels. Good.

If the arguing had begun with Bard’s full throated support of Thorin’s declaration, it would have proceeded more simply. Looked like Bard was a few invectives from concurring, and staking his claim on a forgotten throne.

Excellent.

That would speed things along nicely.

Alfrid yelled something about a Fish-King.

Bard yelled something about boot-licking, and then something far more obscene that turned the Master apoplectic. That was not an image Bilbo needed in his mind.

Thorin maintained his kingly glower, but took a moment to look at Bilbo with a gleam in his eye. Bilbo raised his refilled wine in answer, smiling. If Thorin wanted him to step into the fracas, he would, but both were in agreement. They were a marvelous team. It remained important he not think too long about the title he would gain, but Bilbo was confident in their partnership.

As Thorin inserted himself between the men, unbothered by their height, Bilbo’s mind wandered away again.

Some side effect of confidence; he kept mentally wandering off to braid together flower crowns. Then back to Rivendell when he placed one on Thorin’s head. Then he was smiling sappily at the happiness he’d found. In a flash of magnanimity, he extended a measure of that delight to Ori’s blatant affection for Dwalin, and to the inexplicable but heartfelt connection between Nori and Bofur. He could even smile at the thought of Kíli and Tauriel. That match would make himself and Thorin seem rational and boring. It should divert the gossip-mongers neatly. She helped slay Smaug. Tauriel stood with Kíli and helped to bring the beast down, then saved the prince’s life in the resulting collapse of buildings and walls.

The dwarves, eventually, would forgive her, and accept the pair together.

And Bilbo would motivate those that didn’t move quickly enough.

But first Kíli and Tauriel would be a distraction from his presence in the mountain.

He couldn’t be so cheerful about Frey. He had always thought he was a most rational hobbit; he tried to consider the facts of a situation.

Whatever she’d done to get away from Ori was bad enough. She compounded it with the theft of the Arkenstone and the blatant, heartless betrayal of Fíli on the barricade wall.

Bilbo didn’t think even Thorin could have forgiven him had he done that.

Perhaps she could be an envoy to the elves after the last little skirmish with the orcs was settled. Elves liked her. She would be nearby if Fíli had a change of heart, but not so near as to be in danger if he didn’t. Bilbo didn’t think that the crown prince would do anything rash, but there was always the possibility of a helpful friend or sycophant.

Speaking of sycophants.

Alfrid was cowering.

Bilbo must have missed something important.

“--And should the Men of the Lake choose not to honor the rights of the Men of Dale to live freely and happily in the city, it will force Erebor to side with our true friends.” That was Thorin’s most kingly voice. That voice gave Bilbo uncomfortable thoughts. Bard stood straight backed and proud beside him, chin raised, and eyes defiant.  “Bard fought at our side without promise of wealth or power. He came out of interest in the greater good and the hope of brighter future for his children. Erebor will acknowledge no King of Dale save for him.”

“As if it is yours to declare!” The Master’s voice was shrill, but trembled just slightly.

Bilbo moved to speak, but Bard got their first.

“King Thorin Oakenshield has reclaimed the Heart of the Mountain, and is King of Erebor in tradition as well as right now. He has claimed the Arkenstone and faced down a beast you quailed before and cowered from your entire life. What right do you have to question him? If you will not offer him aid, I will put out a call to those unafraid of their own fat shadows, and raise an army to fight at his side.”

“You have my thanks, Girion’s heir. Once the forges are relit, I will craft your crown myself.”

The pair of them, thick as thieves already, turned to the Master. It was a very polite look, and an absolute threat at the same time.

Bilbo finally left his seat.

“I believe there is no more to be said here.” He bowed to the Master, hoping he looked courteous rather than smarmy. It was probably smarmy. “We must make arrangements with King Thranduil. You understand.”

Thorin stepped to his side, nodding his head regally.

Bard joined them, radiating anger, “If you have no care for the people you rule over, crawl back to the lake with them, and hope we protect you from what is coming.” The trio exited then, cocksure and gloating. Bard coughed once out in the night air, “I know where the Elven King keeps himself. I can show you the way, though I do not expect he will be cheered to see you.”

“We won’t tell him you’re the one who found us on the river bank Bard, have no fear.” Bilbo grinned. They heard the puffing of the Master following behind them, and all three snickered like children. “Oh, unfortunate, we’ll have to include him in our negotiations.”

“So we shall.” Thorin rumbled.

“You had no obligation to vouch for my claim,” Bard added without warning, too earnest, and too doubtful, “but I appreciate it all the same.”

“I found myself obligated by the kindness you have shown us. It is a rare thing in this world to blindly offer help to one who may never repay it.” Thorin found Bilbo’s hand as he spoke, squeezing it. “Few are generous enough to bind their fortunes to the fate of my people, and I will never forget any that show such generosity.”

Bilbo squeezed back, proud beyond measure. He heard the duality of the pronouncement. He knew Thorin struggled to believe any but a dwarf would support him. Bilbo was the first to change his mind. There was no time to kiss him as he wanted, so they simply clung to each other’s hands, walking through shadowed streets toward the sound of a merrier crowd. Bard was silent, visibly grappling with having the thanks of a King, and crown of his own awaiting him down the road.

The elves snapped to attention when they saw Thorin.

Bilbo dropped his hand, pressing forward with Bard, ignoring the Master’s distant whining for them to wait, and hoped he could talk their way into Thranduil’s tent. But the elves, rather than drawing weapons on the dwarf that escaped from their prison cells, bowed and gestured, leading them through the neat lines of elvish encampments.

They followed, warily, to a grand tent, covered in rich fabrics, with light spilling between the slim crack of the entry panels.

One of the guards stepped inside, spoke a few hushed words, and swung the doorway open.

Thranduil lounged comfortably in his seat, wine hanging pendulously from his fingers, and an indulgent smirk on his face. Next to him sprawled Freya, goblet raised in welcome, flushed, and looking entirely too pleased with herself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul**  
>  Thatrukhulde : My Starlight  
> Kurdue : My heart  
> mibilkhagas : tree fuckers
> 
>  
> 
> I think as I get closer to the conclusion I'm mildly panicking because sweet lord I have been writing this thing for a long while and I don't know what I'll do with myself when it ends. You'd think that would mean I would write faster, but you would be wrong there.  
> You should [totally come visit my Tumblr](http://striving-artist.tumblr.com/post/160156649845/striving-artist-a-few-weeks-ago-i-wrote-a-quick) and see the thing that the ToS on this site prevent me mentioning. 
> 
> Quick question. Obviously the battle is coming. Do you want chapters as soon as they're done? Or do you want to have the whole thing done and then posted in faster succession? You know me by now, you know this battle is going to be... uh... rough. And goodness but I love all of you. I don't allow myself to answer comments until I post the new chapter, but don't think I haven't read and reread them about a million times. <3
> 
>  


	32. The Hall of the Half-Mad King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we wait on the edge of a knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahahahahahahahaha.  
> I'm not dead.  
> I have, since I last posted, gotten a new job, gotten divorced, and worked 60+ hours a week. And I'm currently on so many medicines for an infection. So. So Many.  
> So no. I'm not apologizing for the delay. But. I will tell you that there is another 17k already written and since chapters got a bit squishy on me, I removed the count until I work out how I'm breaking these apart. However, you are not, and never will be abandoned. Have faith that I love the ending too much to ever stop writing this.  
> Eternal thanks to Meph, and to everyone that sent good thoughts and productive energy.  
> I'll stop delaying you now.

 

“And what, _praytell_ are you?” Thranduil’s voice was syrupy and condescending. As expected. It was Thranduil. Condescension was par for the course. But her new buddies the elven soldiers were generous with their wine, her world sucked, and she had a reputation to uphold.

So she sneered.

“No. I am who, not what.” She answered, pointing up at him before lapsing into english, “Ori spent a damn long while helping me learn the difference between them. He was insistent. And he’d be double pissed off if I let you call me the wrong one, Mister Swoopy Cloak.”

“You came with the dwarves that _escapedhavingensnared_ the Captain of my guard.”

“Yes. I am with Dwarves,” Frey puffed up, unrepentant.

“And yet you were not _amongstthethrong_ when they _trespassedthrough_ my lands.”

“You’re doing that to fuck with me aren’t you?”

Thranduil assessed her, slowly tracking from the messy hair down the motley armor and lingering on her boots. They were still her steel toes, wrapped over with enough leather that it wasn’t entirely obvious, but enough to give the king pause. He was being judgey, which, she had to suppose, was his right. Kings did that. They judged.

“ _Whatever_ you are, or _wherever_ you come from, I have little _causeleft_ in me to trust _those_ that travel with Thorin Oakenshield.” He refilled his cup. “My guards say you know some Westron, and that should I _limitthequality_ and speed of my speech you will _becapable_ of following _along_.”

“You are what?”

“It _appearsdespite_ their promise your _shortcomingsoutstrip_ your _value_.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what? If you so _ardentlydesire_ to _reprimand_ me for my _declarations…respond_. How else can I know your _worth_?”

Frey gnawed on the inside of her cheek, trying to sort out his meaning based on tone. It had been a while since anyone had spoken without at least minor efforts to let her understand them. His own guards were more accommodating.

Wait. Alfrid. Alfrid was bad too.

But she didn’t give a damn what Alfrid said, so it didn’t count.

“If you have no _worthyoull_ not be kept here. If you have some _measureofworth_ to the dwarves, then I will not _return_ you to them _untilrecompense_ is _established._ ”

She didn’t know what he was saying, but the implied threat was enough.

“Oh shuuuut up. Shut. Up. Shut up. Stop speak for to make me angry, Thranduil. Stop. I know what you are do. I am know things. I am see things. See. I see you now. I see what you do. I am not good for you to be make angry. And you are make much angry for me.” She lost her hold on Westron, and started to rant, “Gah. Just, I am so frick-a-frack-a-fucking tired of being mad all the time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to be this angry for this long? To keep this up? This isn’t good for my health. It is goddamn exhausting is what it is, but it’s the only way to survive. If I actually think about this I start crying. If I think about how much of this is riding on my damn shoulders I go freaking catatonic. So I just have to be angry all the time and I’m so godforsaken sick of it.

“Look. Just. I had sex a with a really hot dwarf. Like, really goddamn hot, dreamboat, literally a dreamboat, I thought I was dreaming at first, you haven’t seen Fíli he’s a work of art, abso-fantastic-lutely gorgeous dwarf, and I was still angry during it! I fucking fell in love with the gold-crazed murderous asshole and I’m still so mad at him I am seriously considering feeding him to a troll. That’s just not right. So listen here, Thranduil, you pompous hamper of dirty jockstraps masquerading as a cat, don’t you try with me tonight. Don’t push me. You are not on my level. I have nothing to lose. And you are involved in some really weird porn in my head. I can trick you into digging around up here like Galadriel did. I am not above making you see that. I’m really not. Weird ships man. I can make you sleep with Elrond. I can make you sleep with Glory --. Though, he’s gorgeous and the fic was great so that’s not really a threat. I should use Gigolas instead, that’s probably more traumatizing for you -- But look, what I mean is that I can punish you because my world is terrible and I just want to go home and stop making everything worse.

“I have spent months and months trying to keep those assholes alive, and hey guess what, Legolas is actually one of those assholes. He’s not as high on the list because he’s mister parkour, he’s mister ride a shield down the stairs and still be shooting at folks. He’s mister funny faces in the background shots because he didn’t know what was going on because he was like twelve when they shot the first ones. He’s mister hanging off a bat showing up late to save my boyfriend’s brother’s life. He’s mister I’m gonna fall so in love with this dwarf -- and no, I don’t know if it's platonic or not, but this shit’d freak you out either way -- I mean, dude loves Gimli so much he builds his own boat and brings him along to the Undying Lands which is sooooooo not done. That’s not a thing. That bullshit doesn't happen. That’s how in love that bastard is. He sailed his own goddamn ship.

“So Don’t You Fuck With Me, Thranduil. I am past the point of no return! Have been for a while. And now Fíli’s gone off the edge of the map. I have nothing to lose. I am a woman without restraints and in possession of a hammer and the greatest hits of the next sixty years. I will rain down holy hell on you, your loved ones and anyone you ever thought kindly of if you fuck with me. Honest to fuck at this point I’m trying to piss the Valar off enough that they’ll let me go home! So behave for once in your life you irredeemable cow! And then we’ll sort out a plan to save everybody!”

Frey blinked, breathing heavily after her half-mimed tirade.

Then.

“Fuck. I said all of that in English.”

Thranduil regarded her with the same cool indifference he used on everything. Then he handed her the glass he’d been drinking from.

“You are _intriguing_ after all.”

By the tone, it was a compliment, so Frey toasted him, and emptied the glass.

“Why are you here?” There it was. The slowed pace, the simpler words, the earnest effort. It would be easier for her if people actually listened the first time she told them she knew what she was doing. She’d streamlined the process though. Ignore propriety, threaten or attack them, yell a lot. It was a ridiculous system, but it worked.

“You will listen?” she retorted to his sincerity. Thranduil did that magnanimous nod he was so good at, and Frey continued. “I am here because you are needing me.”

“I do not.” He drawled.

“You do. Yes. Dwarves do. Men do. You do.”

“Why?”

“Orcs.”

“We do not need your _aidagainstmere_ orcs.”

“Wargs.”

“ _Noragainst_ them.”

“Trolls. Army. Many bad things.”

“Elves have _weatheredmoredangerous_ enemies. Is this why you travel with the Dwarves? The _feebleefforts_ of the enemy to attack them?

“I am follow dwarves for Erebor.”

“For war? For gold? Why?” He asked, refilling her glass.

There was a split in the path of her choices. She could lie, tell him yes, and that they’d agreed to pay, then offer to pay him off if it sealed the deal. Thorin would back her up on that. Or Bilbo would smack his boyfriend around until it was settled. Or, she could be honest, and hope it worked as well as it had in Rivendell.

“Because I am not want them dead. Because I am See things. See Things. I am Know things. And I am not want them dead. The dwarves. The men. The elves. I want them not dead.”

“Why would elves die?” There went part two. The little note of reverence everyone picked up when they believed she spoke with prophecy. Never mind that she was out of canon now. Never mind that she had only the vaguest sense of the battle to come.

“Orcs. Wargs. Trolls. Bad Things. Many. They are come for to take Erebor. I am help for to make Smaug dead -- Well, if we’re being pedantic -- Tauriel is help Kíli to make Smaug dead. And Bard. But I think I get partial credit for that one after me and my crazy-pants boyfriend led him around the mountain. Fuck. English again. Sorry. Drinking does that. Plus I’m in the habit of not saying important things so folks can understand me. Right.” She paused again, mirroring when Thranduil sank into a chair.

“There is an army?”

“Yes. Army. Many bad things. Orcs. Orcs of Gundabad. Azog. Bolg. They are want Erebor. They are want dwarves dead.”

“How many?”

“Many.”

“Where do they _approach_ from?” He asked, slipping into an air of battle command. She shrugged. “When do they come?” She shrugged again, harder.

“And why should I _offeraid_ to those that _vanishedincompany_ with the _Captain_ of my _guard_?”

“Why?”

“Yes.”

His laconic reply preceded him converting his attentive seat to a lounge, waiting like some indolent cat for her to placate him. It was tempting, so very tempting, to find a way to get him in her head and terrify him with any of the two dozen fics currently at the top of her mind. Or to smack him in the nearest limb with the wine bottle.

She needed to be rational. God knew she couldn’t trust Thorin or Bilbo to manage this part. They’d end up spitting on him.

“Because you do not hate dwarfs. Because you are good and are not wanting for death. Not for elves. Not for men. Not for dwarfs. Dwarves. Because you are hear words from Tauriel, and you are know they are good. You know she is talk for what is good for elves, and you are not scared for today. You are scared for tomorrow. You are scared, but you are strong.”

For all Frey knew she sounded like a moron whenever she had to deliver noble little speeches and inspire people in Westron. She could never tell if it was effective until it was over and they responded.

Thranduil rose back to his toweringly imposing height, called to one of the guards, and started speaking rapidly in Sindarin. Since none of it was oaths of love, it was gibberish to her. The elven king turned back to find her refilling her glass. His eyebrow lifted elegantly, because she was increasingly certain that Thranduil could fall down a muddy ravine and not only do it gracefully but find a way to look even better at the bottom.

Damned elves.

“You are help dwarves or no?” She asked, still holding the bottle.

He took it from her, filling his glass entirely, and looked faintly nauseated as he answered, “Yes, I will.”

Frey clinked her glass against his, and they emptied them.

“I _shallhave_ the _stewarddeliver_ more.”

By the time Bilbo and the others arrived, looking shocked to see her at all, they were both lazy and content. She tipped her glass to them, and grinned broadly as Thranduil announced his full support for the approaching battle.

 

* * *

 

It had been a parlous thing for a moment, while Dwalin clutched his prince’s arms, sent Freya on her way, and waited for his punishment. He could not guess what Fíli would do, but braced himself for attack, condemnation, and a fight against the closest thing he had known to a nephew or son. Instead the anger melted into disgust, and Fíli wrenched away, clamoring down the tumbled stones, shouting orders to the others for the defense of the mountain. He bellowed for them to find armor and prepare for Dain’s arrival, forgetting Dwalin once he was out of sight.

Dwalin waited long minutes on the barricade, glanced to see the moonlight glint on Thorin’s weapons as they fled to the city of Dale, and settled on the edge, overlooking a kingdom built of broken vows. It was all he could see now. Where he had been overwhelmed by the potential and the glory of their home reclaimed, he now saw only the things they had lost, and those that were still slipping away.

The change had been sudden; a ringing in his ears that fell abruptly silent, or the clouded haze of sleep blinked clear from his eyes.

It happened as the lass knocked him to the ground.

If -- when -- he met her again, he had a few notes on her technique. It was the shock of the clearing of his mind that slowed him down, not the strength of the hit. If she attempted that on an attacker that wasn’t half-mad, she would find herself put soundly on her back.

Dwalin stayed on the ledge, sorting through his memories of the last weeks, looking for a point of weakness to identify, or an action he could have taken. Instead he found every proof of his disloyalty to his king. He found how he had encouraged and supported Fíli in his delusions. He found failing after failing, and forced himself to keep looking. Introspection wasn’t his strongest trait, but honesty was high up there. No point in pretending he hadn’t been complicit in the mess that had just seen three of their Company fleeing from their home afraid for their lives.

If Dwalin hadn’t shaken clear of the haze of gold and mistrust, Fíli would have carried through. He’d trained the lad. Given him lectures on never allowing a risk to slide by. He taught the lad how to deal with assassins and traitors and executions and everything else. He’d trained the lad since the first of the attempts on his life. He knew what Fíli would have done.

And he stood by his decision, much as it ripped him up inside to think about. There wasn’t a chance of him getting near enough to Fíli to keep him safe now. The lass was run off. Thorin -- the rightful king -- was forced to flee his kingdom. The rest of those that were in the Mountain were loyal to the prince. No. They were worse. They were blind.

He’d been in worse spots, but not many.

They were going to need the damn wizard back to clear up the mess.

Fíli wasn’t going to forgive himself.

Neither would Balin.

Mahal, that was a thought too painful to touch. His brother would fall to pieces when he was back in his right mind. The Company was loyal to Thorin, of course they were; he was their king. They’d followed him across Arda on the faith of his courage and not much more than that. There wasn’t a one of them that was going to feel comfortable in their own skin, but Balin had been Thorin’s advisor for more than a century, had been his friend even longer than that. This would break Balin.

Dwalin straightened his spine, jaw clenched tight and blinking back tears.

He didn’t know when they’d come clear of it, not now that Frey wasn’t around to punch the rest of them in the nose. If it would help, Dwalin was happy to knock the lot of them down. But then he’d need to be trusted enough to get within reach, and that wasn’t likely anymore.

Maybe he ought to climb over the wall and chase after Thorin.

But that would leave the rest alone.

So. That wasn’t really an option at all.

He’d hide in the darker corners and keep an eye on all of them until someone a few steps smarter than him woke up from it all and had a plan they could follow through with. Until then, he’d keep them alive. Keep them safe.

That was a terrible plan.

He couldn’t just wait around for them to come to their senses. It was nice enough that they hadn’t decided to immediately lock him in a cell after stopping Fíli. It was encouraging that they hadn’t attacked him, but Dwalin couldn’t sit about and wait. Hopefully punching was a standard cure that he could volunteer to apply to the others..

Dwalin was sorting through a list of everyone still within Erebor, determining whether it was best to punch everyone into sensibility and then punch Fíli, or start at the top and work his way down, when he heard someone enter the hall.

Ori strode past the broken buildings, and dodged around the still decaying head of the dragon. He marched closer with a handful of bandages pressed against the wound in his leg.

Oh sweet Mahal. Dwalin hadn’t thought about Ori. Preoccupied with the grander threat, he’d overlooked the vague memory of his future intended’s vague injury. It would hurt all the more if Fíli had sent Ori for Dwalin. There was enough cruelty in the prince now to do it. Dwalin braced himself to have to fight the dwarf he’d planned to court, and stared, holding his chin high.

“You as well?” Ori asked after a tense moment of observation.

Dwalin sighed in relief at the announcement.

“Aye. When the lass punched me.”

“When she stabbed me.”

“The lass stabbed you?” Dwalin snarled.

“Not very well.”

Dwalin climbed down and they fell into an embrace, wrapped tight around each other, anchoring in mutual strength.

“I do wish she’d found a gentler way of going about it.”

“Aye, but needs must.” Dwalin mumbled into Ori’s poofed-up hair.

“Come on, you can’t stay here. Fíli finally recalled what you’d done. He is…”

“Aye. I expect I know how he is.”

Ori led him to someplace quiet. Some chamber down a hall nearly blocked by debris. The bench was filthy, the room was forgotten and dim, but it was quiet, and they could sit alone without fear of discovery.

“Don’t know if I’ll be gettin a chance to give ya a gift after all.” Dwalin muttered, holding Ori’s hand and staring at the ancient dust coating the table.

“May well be the case.” Ori allowed.

Both were thinking clearly. They had that at least. They had each other. Ori was smart enough to find a plan. And Dwalin wouldn’t mind putting himself at risk to see it done. Ori had obviously been thinking on a similar path, but stopped Dwalin from speaking for a few more minutes, leaned against his side and taking shuddering breaths.

“How do we proceed?”

“Was sorta hoping you had a plan there.”

“I’ve only had a few minutes to think, Mister Dwalin, if you believe I should have already--”

“Weren’t what I meant, Ori. But I don’t know how to fix this. Kinda hoping you might have read something some time.”

Ori’s face softened, then winced, “I don’t think you could get close enough to smack Fíli could you? Only... it worked rather well for the two of us.”

“Shame the lass didn’t get a hit in before he grabbed her.”

“Would have simplified things certainly.”

“Aye.”

“Or does it only work if she does it? Because of what she sees?”

“If she knew that, she’d not have waited to land a blow or four.”

“That’s true I suppose. It might take four… he’s isn’t…. He’s more… uh... ill than we were.”

They slipped into silence again, contemplative, but far from productive. Dwalin gave up on pretense and pulled Ori close once again, arm around his hip as he scratched patterns in the dust on the table.

There was a possible plan to be had. It wasn’t smart, or anything approaching smart. It sounded like the nonsense Kíli used to spout during tactics classes as a dwarfling, but it was all Dwalin had. Something creaked in protest in his chest at the realization of what he was contemplating, but there wasn’t anything else to try. He’d have to hurt the prince enough to slip him out of the madness and bring him back to his proper mind.

One long exhale to brace himself proceeded his announcement.

Ori interrupted before Dwalin could speak.

“What if he doesn’t break free of it?”

Dwalin rumbled a noise that contained no answers.

“No. Dwalin, if you do what I think you intend, and it does not succeed. If the prince does not find himself again, what will happen?” Ori knew the answer, and waited until Dwalin’s chin dipped. “He’ll kill you. You know he will. He meant to kill Freya. Durinultarg…. He nearly killed Thorin. He is worse now than he was when we… He is worse Dwalin. If he does not wake from this in that first moment, he will not hesitate. Will you?”

Again, there was no answer he could give and speak it as truth. He couldn’t tell Ori that if his prince chose to strike him down, Dwalin would let him. He couldn’t say that he would fight back, knowing that he’d never find the darkness in his heart to kill a dwarf he had seen raised from a child. There would be a first chance, and no other. If Dwalin could not, in a single blow, shake their prince from madness, he would be killed.

It must have shown on his face.

“As I thought. Well then, we’ll need a new plan in that case, because I certainly won’t send you off on this one.”

“Ori.”

“No, Dwalin. What good would it even do? If you fail, then I would be alone, and it’s not as if I would be capable of hitting harder than you, even with your hammer. So you can put that entire plan to the side Dwalin, we need another.”

“Little brother, they’re looking for you.”

Both dwarves startled at the sound, reaching for weapons, jumping to stand against their attacker, and despite the ache in his chest, Dwalin knew he would protect Ori if it came to it. Instead of attackers and peril and blades, they were met with Nori’s amused smirk.

“That how you greet your brother?” When neither released their weapons, Nori huffed, “Fine. What do you want me to say? That I’m aware of our princeling running headlong into madness? That the lad’s lost a few gems from a necklace? That he’s not got enough kindling to get the forge going? That he hasn’t-- oof.” Ori slammed into his brother’s chest, with a fierce hug, mumbling something so obscene it had to be a quote from Nori.

“Someone knock you upside the head as well?”

“Something like that.”

“Nori?”

“Was with the King--prin-- I was following after Fíli, and pulled me aside from the others, asked me all quiet like if I had an interest in taking care of a problem for him and earning the favor of the King of Erebor. Sounded grand to me, so I agreed. Asked me pay a visit to the traitor -- that’ll be you Dwalin. And all of a sudden what he was saying didn’t sound so grand no more. Tried to talk him round, but he wouldn’t listen to a word. So I lied. Told him I’d take care of you. And off I went.”

“Probably best. You couldn’t take me even before you got stepped on by a dragon.”

Nori held his eye, over Ori’s head, and answered, “I’ll let you think that if it lets you sleep at night, Dwalin. Now then. Ori, you’d best be getting back before they notice you went and wandered. Tell em you haven’t seen a whisper of this one, and I’ll be back around in a few hours.”

“What are you going to do Nori? You have the same look you used to before Dori had to pay off the guardsmen back home.”

“Have to get this one somewhere he won’t be found til we can sort out what to do.”

“With three of us we can get to Fíli and maybe--”

“You can’t.”

“We might.”

“Never took you for an optimist Dwalin, Ori here, sure, but you’re a bit more used to the way of things. Wouldn’t be three on one, it’d be three on eight. We’ll come up with something, but it ain’t gonna be that simple. Go on. Ori. Go. I’ll get this one hid away and come find you.”

Ori slipped away with a grumble, a moment of irritation, and Dwalin saw the tension rise in Nori’s shoulders.

“What?” He asked.

“It’s worse than you think it is, Dwalin.”

Dwalin growled, wanting to take the risk and sock his prince in the nose, but followed Nori, knowing by the tone that the rest of that tale wouldn’t be told until they’d gotten to wherever was his goal.

 

* * *

 

Thorin spent most of the week that followed negotiating contracts he wanted to decline with the Master of the Lake. Someone had used his name. Thorin knew he heard it, but it had promptly vanished from his mind once more. If the Man were a more imposing figure, Thorin would have suspected the name was spelled to be impossible to recall.

He wasn’t.

The Man had to have a name, and Men weren’t parsimonious with the knowledge; they shared them freely. Surely, surely, at some point Thorin would succeed in pinning down what it was and memorizing it. Calling him the Master made it sound as if Thorin held him in some level of respect. Calling him a bloated cur would go too far in the opposite direction. Slightly. Bilbo’s silver tongue could only extricate them from so much. He could of course ask Bard what the name was, but the only time Thorin had raised the question, the archer replied with a string of profanity that was impressive enough to stun Bilbo into silence.

For his part, Bilbo slipped away from the Master whenever possible, proving to be more elusive than anyone, even a person with a magic ring should have been capable of being. It was not as if Bilbo was strictly necessary at the negotiations, but it was pleasant to have him nearby. He was a calming force in the room.

Instead, his beloved Consort-to-be vanished a few hours each day, and dodged all questions about his destination.

So Thorin had little respite from the negotiations.

The day they brought Freya in to join them was active, but not especially effective. She threw a cup at Alfrid and stomped back to the elves in a fit of pique after the miserable fink had implied she was an idiot as well as a camp follower. Thorin was in part to blame for that. His initial deceit had prevailed, and the leaders were establishing defenses as they waited for the promised arrival of Dain’s army, but the Men believed that Freya was touched in the head.  

As his own Company had once believed.

It was useful, and she’d learned of several efforts in the preceding week to circumvent Bard’s interests in negotiations because the Men spoke freely above her.

There was no movement from the Mountain.

A guard kept watch over the entrance, but nothing had been seen to indicate any activity within the walls. It roiled in Thorin’s stomach not to know. There was the chance that his nephew was well enough, safe, but lost in madness, circling through the gold and planning for an army as he raged over betrayals. It was also possible a worse fate had befallen the whole of the Company that Thorin had abandoned.

Freya looked increasingly desperate. She watched the southern horizon and the eastern horizon, fretting and furious, explaining little save that she was waiting.

No further revelations had fallen from her tongue, and preparations were being made based on the limited knowledge she had provided: An army was approaching in secret. They would come upon them on the plain between Dale and Erebor, seek to divide them. A second Army came from the north. Gandalf would return, likely from the South, and Dain from the East. There would be five armies, and if they did not stand together, the day would end in ruin.

All of which she declared in the first day, enacting a pantomime to convey it as she moved figures around a map and portrayed various violent deaths.

It was largely useless, save to explain why she had demonstrated an unknown power to destroy a long abandoned guard tower on Ravenhill. She explained it in faltering words and shuttered expressions, that the tower would have hidden Azog and lead to the capture of the princes. Alone with Thorin and Bilbo, she stammered to make herself clear, and both could see the simple outcome of such an event. Thanks did not come easily, especially for the destruction of dwarvish architecture, but Thorin offered them to her for her choice.

Since then, she had avoided them.

Freya spent her time with the Elves, drinking and largely silent, fiddling with the weapons she carried and the armor she wore. Bilbo identified her troubles after a lone glance.

The guilt, the fear, and the determination were obvious after that.

Thorin did not like the path that he, Thranduil, Bard and the Master walked, but there was no other choice. Plans could not be engaged until the rest of the players entered the field, and there was no specific prediction of when that would come. She seemed confident that Gandalf would make himself known prior to the orcs, but said not a word about when Kíli and the elves would return from their scouting efforts.  

So they waited.

The Men of the Lake prepared the city as well as they could, called for those with training to join them in Dale, and ensured that the town held those who could not take up arms. The Elves drilled, and made merry with the insouciant calm that came from being so confoundedly old. Bard scowled when his two eldest arrived to join the fight, but trained them as he could.

It was a week before there was any change.

Unpleasant as it was to feign patience and listen to the Master ramble, when it ended, Thorin knew he would regret it.

 

* * *

 

 

Gandalf was late. And not in his self-justifying ‘wizards are never late’ way. He was simply late. Missing. Absent. Behind schedule. Possibly dead. Definitely on her shit list.  

Freya stared to the south with more intensity than the guards stared at the gates of Erebor.

Still, no Gandalf.

Which wasn’t, you know, great.

Gandalf wasn’t wholly central to the Battle of the Five Armies, not like he was with some of the stuff sixty years later when it was ring quest time. It wasn’t like the battle hinged on him the same way as, for instance, the Balrog did.

Still.

It was freaking Frey out. If nothing else, he was a point in favor of her idiots surviving whatever injuries they’d get when they battle began. Them receiving no injuries was not a real option as much as it would make her happy.

If Galadriel had listened, then Gandalf should have been early, weeks early, and until she started camping out with the elves in Dale, bored out of her mind, it hadn’t occurred to her that Galadriel wouldn't do as told. Why wouldn’t she would do as told? Frey spent hours cramming information into the Lady’s head, and doing reenactments and pointing at maps and drawing cartoons to hammer the point home.

Literally with a hammer at one point.

Galadriel understood what was what and the to-do list she was assigned when Frey hauled herself out Rivendell to grump her way up a mountain after a group that wasn’t sure they didn’t want her dead.

Even Glorfindel understood before she left.

Frey made sure of that. That wasn’t something to leave to chance. Backup plans were great. It was Sauron, not a great time to gamble. So she had hammered it home, made Galadriel repeat it back, gone through the whole thing again, reiterated as well as she could in gestures and pointing, then done it all for round three with Glory watching along.

They’d understood, dammit.

And Gandalf was late.

Which left a short list of possibilities. The worst of which was that the standard rule Frey’s life in Arda had followed was coming into play. Anything Frey tried to fix got worse if she wasn’t doing it herself.

So. Based on past precedent in the ‘Frey Tries to Fix Shit’ category.... Gandalf was dead and Galadriel had teamed up with Sauron in some kind of dream team of high-drama malevolence.

They probably had awesome costumes. Clothing? Fuck it. They were dramatic bastards, they wore costumes.

Fantastic.

Between the imminent destruction of the universe and the endless bitching and insulting by Alfrid and the Master, she was ready to haul off and punch someone. The bruises from punching Dwalin were healed. It’d keep her mind off of Erebor for a few more hours at any rate. That would be good. As long as she wasn’t thinking about Erebor, she wouldn’t give into the temptation to do something moronic like climb back inside and confront her dwarves. Or see if she could avoid being shanked long enough to bitchslap her not-boyfriend a couple dozen times.  

She needed distractions.

Speaking of which, Alfrid slinked into her peripheral vision with a nasally insult to her intelligence and slid a slimy hand onto the top of her head. Yanking away for a moment caused him to grip her hair tighter to keep her in place.

“One of these days fish fucker, I am going to punch you in the dick so hard your balls are going to spontaneously separate from your body and run away to live in Rhun, you spineless twat.”

“ _Whiningagain_? The elf-king _mightconsider_ you interesting but my Master _wouldntbebothered_ if you got what was coming to you.”

She understood enough, rolling her head slowly beneath his hand until she had fixed him with as vicious a glare as she had. When he recoiled she hissed in Westron, “You are dead soon.”

Perks of everyone thinking she was a prophet: he ran away.

Frey grumbled, tucked her arms tighter against the chill of the wind, and stared harder towards the south. Like that was going to help anything.

 

* * *

 

Ori kept to himself as much as possible over the days that followed.

He saw Nori return with a shank of hair and a story about kicking Dwalin into one of the mine pits after cutting off his beard.

He saw the gleeful delight on Fíli and Balin’s faces, and immediately had to hide away in a corner. Knowing it wasn’t true didn’t offer much comfort. Because as well as he knew that Dwalin was alive and annoyed and living in a closet in the rookery, he also knew what it would cost the Company when they awoke from this. The two most enraptured with the dwarf’s demise were the two most likely to never forgive themselves.

“He shall make a fine King. Finer than any we have seen in generations. Fine enough to outstrip the tales of glory of his forebears.” Dori announced, stepping beside Ori and smiling placidly down at the treasury. “He already speaks of reclaiming the halls of Khazad Dum once the scum on our doorstep have been eradicated.”

“Has he?”

“You always were fond of the stories, and you are loyal and true, Ori, if you ask, our King will give you a place of honor in the battle to reclaim it.”

Ori gave a half hearted sound of agreement.

“Worry not brother, after this battle is done, and the traitors made to know their crimes, the mountain will ring with laughter once more. We shall be merry, and we shall never again want for anything.”

“But first we ten must win against two armies.”

“Dain will come.”

“The elves have come already.”

“Ori --” His brother spun him, eyebrows pinching tight, and a veneer of concern overlaying the miles deep anger and mistrust. “--do not speak as if they are worth our attention. They are less than nothing. They are beneath us. The King would not want to hear you questioning his decisions or his capabilities. He is our King, and the greatest we have ever known. You owe him your purest allegiance.”

“Of course. King Fíli has my loyalty.”

Dori smiled, placated, and wandered off without so much as a comment on Ori’s sunken cheeks.

“Don’t fuss about it Ori.”

“Why not Nori?” He asked the dark corner where his other brother was hiding.

“Because our brother’s got himself a thick skull and hitting him hard enough to wake him up’s likely to break your hand.”

“None of the others have--”

“I know it. I’m the one that told you that. And Fíli’s as bad as he’s ever been.”

“So what do we do?”

“Just now? Not a thing. Don’t look at me like that, I’ve got a dozen and a half plans for what we’ll do, but none of them are the right one just now. Have to wait until it’ll work, and then I’ll bundle you and that clot headed oaf onto a pony and drag the both of you back to Ered Luin on my lonesome if I need to.”

“I meant about him.” Ori answered with a substantial look to the tiny figure with a torch amongst the gold. Fíli stalked between towers of wealth all day, climbing up to retrieve any weapon he found, mumbling and muttering about protecting their homeland.

“Can’t help him.”

“Nori.”

“Do you know what he asked me this morning when I was carrying off the weapons he found to sharpen them all? Asked if, since I did such a fine job with killing off Dwalin, if I didn’t mind sneaking myself into Dale and bringing back a few similar tokens.”

“Freya?”

“And Thorin and Bilbo. Well, once he recalled that Bilbo existed. Lost track of his name for a moment. Kept calling him his uncle’s whore, which we’ll not be repeating since I’d rather not have Thorin after my blood.”

Ori swallowed the sound that tried to escape, stepping away from the precipice and joining Nori in the darkness. Fíli was too far gone. Nothing they had tried helped, not even when silver platter had tumbled from its perch and conked the dwarf in the skull. There was no helping Fíli. It would take a wizard, or the hand of Mahal himself. Rationally, Ori knew that.

He still wanted to help his friend. He let himself be lead away, up the tight spiralling steps to Dwalin, where they spent hours preparing and detailing plans to keep the others safe, if not sane.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo didn’t know what in the name of all that was good in the world was making such a racket so early in the morning, but he had every intention of hauling himself out of bed, finding it, and beating it into submission with a cook pot.  He flopped out of the blankets he’d cocooned into during the night before looking for Thorin, and complaints flickered out as his mind caught up.

War. Prophecy. Armies.

Yes.

That made more sense than mischievous faunts in need of a spoon to their heels. Besides, Thorin had never lived in Hobbiton, and that was his mind’s idle fantasies getting the best of him while he slept.

Horns blared, weapons clattered, and Bilbo found himself racing from the ramshackle house.

It took long minutes ducking between the legs of Big folks to cross Dale, but Hobbits were remarkably light-footed. He’d have been happier in the woods than an abandoned town, but he would make do. Heart pounding, following the tide of warriors, he skidded around the last corner and pulled up short of crashing into Thorin’s side. The King of Erebor stood beside the Kings of Dale and Mirkwood, chin held high, and looking far more confident than he truly was. No one knew that but the pair of them though.

Just behind Bilbo’s arrival came Frey, who looked to the east and breathed out a relieved, “Dain,” that carried as much dread as it did joy. Hard not to agree considering the longest standing of her prophecies.

There was nothing to be seen, but the gathered group didn’t doubt.

As ever, she was correct, and a moment later, a dwarven army was visible on the eastern rise.

“Now comes Dain, Lord of the Iron Hills.” Thorin announced formally.

“ _Ohholycockgobblinghell. Thankfuck. Ohfuckingdammit._ I _thoughtthishadgonebellyuptoo. Okayokayitsokay._ We _haveanotherarmy. Thisisfine. Thisisgood. Ivegotthis. Armiesaregood. Armiesonmysidearegood. Fucktheotherguys. Justdontfuckupthelineofsuccession_ Frey _. Wevegotthis. Onegoal. Onlyonegoal. Wehaveadamnplan. Wevegotthis._ ”

“You say that as if we should be gladdened by their coming,” The Master announced as he joined them, “What promise is there that these dwarves won’t turn against us?”

“Quite right, sire. Everyone knows the stories that get told about dwarves.”

Bilbo snapped his hand out to find Thorin’s arm and keep him calm. It wasn’t necessary for once. Thorin was placid, looking over the field to the approaching army with a small tweak of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It was difficult to call it kingly since Bilbo knew it was masking half a dozen insults and a smug grin, but the decision to keep his peace, that was admirable.

Bilbo was very proud.

Irritating as the man could be, it did not serve them well to fall into argument and discord with a promised battle on the horizon.

“Perhaps this group comes with some ill intent? Why should we not make ready to defend ourselves?” The Master was especially odious when he was being rhetorical.

“If they came with ill intent, we would know it already. Dwarves do not trade in deceptions. They are not clever enough.” Thranduil replied, gesturing orders to his commanders. “If there was to be an attack, they would not approach as allies.”

Strictly speaking, that wasn’t true, but Bilbo wasn’t going to raise the point. They had been called by Fíli and the others, so there was no guessing where their loyalty would lie, but it did them no favors to mention that to the Men. In any case, they had been summoned, no doubt, with the news that the Arkenstone had been reclaimed, and that particular gem was seated in Thorin’s pocket.

Which settled that matter.

Thorin was king.

“And how are we supposed to trust them?” Alfrid simpered.

Thorin turned slowly, playing up his regular majestic glare for something more intense. He nodded, as if acknowledging an argument, and glanced to Bard, who had a frustrated scowl barely held in check.

“It shouldn’t matter, I would suppose, even if they were to turn against us, as dwarves are wont to do,” The Master interrupted, “with the aid of King Thranduil, I cannot fathom they should even have any capacity to bring us harm no matter what effort they may expend.”

“Indeed, sire, but for the safety of our people, I have to wonder why we should trust them.”

It wasn’t subtle, but it was the same game of petulant sniping played by the matrons of Hobbiton over the most recent party. Bilbo knew how to deal with that if Thorin wanted him to, he knew how to stay silent if Thorin would rather let them both embarrass themselves without a response. By the look of it, the latter was Thorin’s intention.

Frey had other plans.

“Because I have said,” without turning, she issued the pronouncement like holy writ.

Even Thranduil lifted his chin higher at that. Bilbo squeezed as Thorin slipped their fingers together, buoyed by the certainty in her voice. Nothing was certain, but Bilbo allowed the warm glow of the promise in her voice to encourage him. It would be fine.

They would all be fine.

 

* * *

 

Betrayal would be met with swift and furious recompense. Nothing less. No King of Dwarves could maintain their throne after doing less, and the betrayal of his own kin cut deeper than any other. All of them.

It was vile and repugnant and while the comfort of the Company at his back offered some small solace it was not enough to slake the need to find justice.

Dwarves did not allow such things to pass unnoticed.

Once Dain arrived it would be set to right.

They would be punished.

They would be made to see.

They would be made to apologize and make amends. Then to swear new oaths of loyalty when their suffering made their words sincere.

Until then, there was the comfort of what they had, and what they would have in the years to come. Wealth beyond imagining. And he had imagined a great deal. It was a hoard beyond the measure of a single dwarf’s lifetime, and it was all at his disposal. It was not all for himself though, no. No. He was not so common as that.

He was better than that.

It was his, and he would use it and command its use, but he was not greedy, he was not his great grandfather. He was not so tight fisted as to deny the rightful payments be made to those that deserved them. His company. His companions. His subjects. They deserved to live the life they had been denied for a century and a half. He would see that they never again were spurned by the Big Folk. That the clans of dwarves would know who they were and treat them with respect. He would not let them be dragged through the mud again. He would protect them.

The gold would ensure it happened. The gold would would be there when others faltered, when faith shook, when they doubted. The gold would anchor them to him. The gold would not abandon him. It would not flit away into the night as a thief and a liar leaving agony in its wake. The gold was forever loyal and forever bound to the fate of the dwarves of Erebor. The gold would be there to make certain that his people were never again harmed. They were his. His people. He would protect them from any that tried to bring them to harm, directly or indirectly. He would not countenance betrayals such as he had suffered. His people were too important.

And if he was first amongst them, none could complain.

He was their King.

A better king than the one who had frittered away their lives in a fetid broken echo of a home rather than take the chance to achieve what ought to have been theirs decades earlier. He would be the king that his people deserved. He would be the king he once thought the traitor was.

He would be a king his brother would be proud of.

The gold could make that happen.

It would happen.

Coins slipped between his fingers as he trailed his hands through the stacks. It sent waves cascading behind him, jingling like music as they struck each other. Each piece was a wonderment, a token, a promise of the things that were to come. Each belonged to him, and through his generosity, his subjects would come to love him.

To worship him.

He would not squander it on frippery and shallow impulse, but nor would he grasp it too tightly. He was their king. And just as he would care for them as a doting father, he would protect them from themselves. From their own innocence and naivety.

Someone had to be strong enough to see when villainy lurked in the shadows. He would see it. His companions would see it.

Since that spat of perfidy as they stood upon the barricade wall, their loyalty was unshaken. Those that remained with him were loyal. Those that were not, were dead or gone. His brother was loyal. There could be no question of it. When his brother returned it would be proven. His loyal companions would stand behind him though all that he would face.

When Dain arrived, when the elves were banished back to their festering trees, when the men were reminded of their place in the world, his companions would stand behind him.

He had no doubt.

He plucked up a jewel, a sapphire near the size of his thumb, rough cut and unfinished. His line had always favored blue. It was a fine stone, clear and of a deep color. He slipped it into his pocket, adding to his small collection of private favors.

One day he would need to pass to his loyal few compatriots small tokens of his appreciation for standing beside him.

They were loyal.

They were true.

They brought to him questions and queries to ensure his plans were strong. They had readily disposed of the traitor left in their midst.

They deserved everything he would win for them. Everything he would defend for them. They deserved all of the glory that Erebor had to offer.

And the gold would let that happen.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I think this is a weird chapter, but the next nice place to cut made it too long, so this is what is has to be. I adore you all.   
> More to come soon. <3 <3


End file.
